Free Up a Road Slowly by Irene Hunt Page B

flowers for the piano and the mantel of the living room fireplace. “You show very good taste at that task, Julia,” she said of my flower arrangements. There was an unmistakable air of graciousness about Aunt Cordelia that morning.
    Fortunately it was chilly enough to warrant a fire in both fireplaces, and so we laid the kindling and wood, all ready to be lighted a half hour before our guests were expected. I polished the silver coffee service and set it on a low table in front of the fire, and Aunt Cordelia brought out a collection of little cakes and rolls which she had baked at ten that morning in order that they be oven-fresh.
    The fires were crackling brightly at two-thirty, and the reflection of flame was deep in the polished mahogany lid of Uncle Haskell’s grand piano, in the old wine decanter and the silver coffee service. Outside, the day was perfect with bright skies and the gay colors of our wooded surroundings. If Jonathan Eltwing had ever loved this old place, it must have wakened memories for him that afternoon.
    Father drove up with Dr. and Mrs. Eltwing precisely at three o’clock; he knew Aunt Cordelia well enough to respect her passion for punctuality. I watched them walk up the brick-paved path to the porch where Aunt Cordelia stood waiting to greet them: Jonathan Eltwing so tall and huge as to dwarf my handsome and rather tall father; Mrs. Eltwing, a tiny, graceful woman wearing a pale gray velvet suit with a frilly blouse and a heavy gold pin at her throat. She had great, strangely brilliant eyes that dominated her tiny face and a mass of half-blonde, half-gray hair that she drew back smoothly from her forehead and wore in a great bun close to her neck. She was a lovely little creature with an air of childlike sweetness and innocence; she stood smiling and looking off into our bright woods as Jonathan Eltwing took Aunt Cordelia’s hand in both his own and stood looking at her as if he were searching for the girl he had once known. I was proud of Aunt Cordelia; she looked slim and elegant standing there in the autumn sunlight, not once losing her cool composure as she greeted Jonathan Eltwing and his wife. I noticed that Father kissed her with special tenderness as if he understood that it was a difficult moment for her.
    Then we were all in the living room in front of the fire. I sat close to Father and watched the faces of those around me with keen interest.
    Dr. Eltwing gave all of his attention at first to Aunt Cordelia, asking her many questions, the two of them exchanging memories. Mrs. Eltwing seemed to pay no attention to any of us; she gave a little exclamation of pleasure over a plate of tidbits, and seating herself near it, picked up one piece after another, placing them quickly in her mouth and sucking off the grains of sugar or specks of frosting that clung to her fingers. There was somehow nothing greedy in her actions; each bit of food was held daintily, was bitten into with what seemed more like gay satisfaction than greed. Even the little gesture of removing the sugar from her fingers was done lightly and with a kind of merry charm. But the eating continued steadily until Dr. Eltwing held out his hands to her.
    â€œCome and sit here beside me, Katy,” he said gently. “I want to be sure that you understand who Miss Bishop is. Do you remember that I have often told you about the girl who tutored me when we were young, the one who helped me day after day until I was ready for my entrance examinations?”
    Mrs. Eltwing uttered an amazed little “O-h-h” and turned to Aunt Cordelia in what seemed to be complete surprise. “Oh-h-h, I want to thank you—many, many times. You have been so good to my Jonathan.” She hardly glanced at Aunt Cordelia as she spoke, but took the chair at her husband’s side and looked up into his face as if to ask if she had said the right words.
    Dr. Eltwing was very nice to me, once he got around to noticing