"
"Now, then," said her husband hastily, "that's all right, too, mother."
Anna stood at the sink, and washed the dishes. Her hands floated
through the warm, soapy water like lazy fish, curled around plates,
swam out of pots; while her thoughts, drowsy, sunny in her head,
passed, like her hands, from what was hardly seen to what was hardly
felt.
"Look after the milk, Anna," said her mother, "while I go for some
kindlings." She went out, thin, stooped, her long, lean fingers
fumbling with her apron; and she came back more bent than before. She
put the wood down with a sigh. "A body's never done," she said.
Anna looked after the milk, all in a gentle phlegm. Her mother cooked,
cleaned, scrubbed, carried water, fetched wood, set the house to
rights; in order to keep Anna fresh and plump until she was married.
Anna, plump and wealthy, was a good match for any one: old Mr. Frye
used to smile when he saw her. "Smooth and sweet," he used to say:
"molasses . . . hm . . ."
Now she stood dreaming by the stove, until her mother, climbing from
the cellar, woke her with a clatter of coal.
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