"And it only seems like yesterday that I went away!" said he.
Mother was dead. That was the one great change. Peter Paul's sisters
had inherited the farm. They managed it together, and they had divided
their mother's clothes, and also her rings and ear-rings, her gold
skull-cap and head-band and pins,--the heirlooms of a Dutch farmeress.
"It matters very little how we divide them, dear," Anna had said, "for
I shall never marry, and they will all go to your girl."
The elder sister was married and had two children. She had grown up
very pretty--a fair woman, with liquid misleading eyes. They looked as
if they were gazing into the far future, but they did not see an inch
beyond the farm. Anna was a very plain copy of her in body, in mind
she was the elder sister's echo. They were very fond of each other,
and the prettiest thing about them was their faithful love for their
mother, whose memory was kept as green as pastures after rain.
On Sunday Peter Paul went with them to her grave, and then to service.
The ugly little church, the same old clerk, even the look of that part
of the seat where Peter Paul had kicked the paint off during
sermons--all strengthened the feeling that it could only have been a
few days since he was there before.
As they walked home he told his sisters about the various religious
services he had seen abroad.
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