Now, Friday was Miss Hepsy's cleaning day. Although ordinary eyes
would have been puzzled to point out what spot in that shining domain
required more than the touch of a duster, the house was upturned from
ceiling to basement, and received such sweeping and dusting and
polishing, such scouring and scrubbing, that it was a marvel Miss
Hepsy was not exhausted at the end of it. She had just turned out the
parlour chairs into the lobby, and was busy with broom and dust-pan,
sweeping up invisible dust, when Ebenezer brought her Mr.
Goldthwaite's letter. So much did it upset her, that he had to depart
without his glass of cider, for she took no more notice of him than
if he had been one of the pillars at the door. It was eleven o'clock
almost; it would take her every moment to dress and be at the depot
in time; so she had to set the chairs back into the half-swept room,
replace her working garb by the green dress and the plaid shawl, take
her blue umbrella and trudge off, leaving the management of the
dinner to Keziah. Her frame of mind as she did so augured ill for the
welcome of her sister's children.

The cars were half an hour late, and Miss Hepsy strode up and down
the platform in a ferment of wrath and impatience, thinking of the
dinner under awkward Keziah's supervision; of the sweeping and
dusting and baking all to be done in the afternoon; of the bother two
strange children were sure to be; of a hundred and one things, which
brought her temper up to fever heat by the time the train puffed into
the depot. From the window of a first-class compartment two faces
looked out eagerly, but failed to recognize in Miss Hepsy the sister
of the dear dead mother they had so lately lost. Miss Hepsy saw Mr,
Goldthwaite step out first, followed by a tall, handsome-looking boy,
well dressed and refined-looking, who in his turn assisted with care
and tenderness a slight, delicate-looking girl, who bore such a