The household consisted of Mrs. Reist, a widow, her two children, her
brother Amos Rohrer, who was responsible for the success of the farm,
and a hired girl, Millie Hess, who had served the household so long and
faithfully that she seemed an integral part of the family.
Mrs. Reist was a sweet-faced, frail little woman, a member of the
Mennonite Church. She wore the plain garb adopted by the women of that
sect--the tight-fitting waist covered by a pointed shoulder cape, the
full skirt and the white cap upon smoothly combed, parted hair. Her
red-haired children were so like their father had been, that at times
her heart contracted at sight of them. His had been a strong, buoyant
spirit and when her hands, like Moses' of old, had required steadying,
he had never failed her. At first his death left her helpless and
discouraged as she faced the task of rearing without his help the two
young children, children about whom they had dreamed great dreams and
for whom they had planned wonderful things. But gradually the widowed
mother developed new courage, and though frail in body grew brave in
spirit and faced cheerfully the rearing of Amanda and Philip.
The children had inherited the father's strength, his happy
cheerfulness, his quick-to-anger and quicker-to-repent propensity, but
the mother's gentleness also dwelt in them. Laughing, merry, they sang
their way through the days, protesting vehemently when things went
contrary to their desires, but laughing the next moment in the
irresponsible manner of youth the world over. That August day the
promise of fun at Aunt Rebecca's expense quite compensated for the
unpleasantness of her visit.
Aunt Rebecca Miller was an elder sister to Mrs. Reist, so said the
inscription in the big family Bible. But it was difficult to understand
how the two women could have been mothered by one person.
Millie, the hired girl, expressed her opinion freely to Amanda one day
after a particularly trying time with the old woman. "How that Rebecca
Miller can be your mom's sister now beats me. She's more like a wasp
than anything I ever seen without wings. It's sting, sting all the time
with her; nothin' anybody does or says is just right. She's
faultfindin' every time she comes. It wonders me sometimes if she'll
like heaven when she gets up there, or if she'll see some things she'd
change if she had her way. And mostly all the plain people are so nice
that abody's got to like 'em, but she's not like the others, I guess.
Most every time she comes she makes me mad. She's too bossy. Why,
to-day when I was fryin' doughnuts she bothered me so that I just
wished the fat would spritz her good once and she'd go and leave me be."