Her name was Susan. He sat down in the rocking-chair before her
fire, and Susan went on ironing at the table in front of the window, and
a smell of hot flannel pervaded the kitchen.
Susan had been retained too securely by Christina to be likely to side
with Ernest all in a moment. He knew this very well, and did not call on
her for the sake of support, moral or otherwise. He had called because
he liked her, and also because he knew that he should gather much in a
chat with her that he should not be able to arrive at in any other way.
"Oh, Master Ernest," said Susan, "why did you not come back when your
poor papa and mamma wanted you? I'm sure your ma has said to me a
hundred times over if she has said it once that all should be exactly as
it had been before."
Ernest smiled to himself. It was no use explaining to Susan why he
smiled, so he said nothing.
"For the first day or two I thought she never would get over it; she said
it was a judgement upon her, and went on about things as she had said and
done many years ago, before your pa knew her, and I don't know what she
didn't say or wouldn't have said only I stopped her; she seemed out of
her mind like, and said that none of the neighbours would ever speak to
her again, but the next day Mrs Bushby (her that was Miss Cowey, you
know) called, and your ma always was so fond of her, and it seemed to do
her a power o' good, for the next day she went through all her dresses,
and we settled how she should have them altered; and then all the
neighbours called for miles and miles round, and your ma came in here,
and said she had been going through the waters of misery, and the Lord
had turned them to a well.
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