Another nod showed that her aunt’s attention had been drawn to Susan’s mourning.
“Who’s that black for?”
“My mother; she died a month ago.”
“Humph. In London?”
“Yes.”
“A happy thing for her. Folk should never cry for them that’s dead, for its nubbut to the Elect going home with their wages when t’mill of this world loises.” Then added, as she saw Susan’s tears, “I expect thou will cry—it’s a sign of the Ungracious, which I ’spect thou’rt one on, so sit down and hav’ it out.”
Her aunt then went from her, and took no further notice of her, stirred up the fire, put on the kettle, cleared up the hearth, and prepared tea. When all was ready she called Susan, bade her bring a chair to the table, and then seating herself, poured out the tea without further invitation, and as though her visitor had for years formed part of her family.
Susan sat opposite her aunt; and as she partook of the substantial meal which had been so unceremoniously prepared for her, she saw that beneath the seeming coldness of her aunt’s demeanour there was a hearty welcome and gladness, and could scarcely refrain from expressing her girlish delight at the large, well starched, and many-bordered muslin cap, the clean blue-and-white checked apron, and the clear healthy complexion of her aunt. As the hot tea, broiled ham, cake, and other piled-up viands which were pressed upon her, either silently or with the laconic invitation, “Reach to,” renovated Susan’s strength, she began to feel at home, and to appreciate the kindness and affection which disdained to express themselves in words.
Her reflections were interrupted by her aunt saying to her,
“How long is thou goin’ to stop?”
“Here, aunt, or in the town?”
“Altogether.”
“Always—in one place or another. I’m come to get work.”
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(See p. 715.)
