Ellen spent a great part of her day sitting in the kitchen. From her rocking chair in the window she could see the cars go by down the road. The big maple darkened it some in summer but in fall shed a rosy light when the leaves turned. She had a sewing-basket table by her side, and she felt very much like a bird in a nest as she sewed and tucked and made over garments people brought her, some of them that you would hardly have thought worth keeping. It was a long time since anyone had asked her to smock a child’s dress as she used to do for Christina when the children were small. That was what she loved—to start fresh with a beautiful piece of fine cloth in her hands; but mostly she mended, turned up hems (would the fashion ever stay one length for a year or two? Now all the ladies had to have skirts turned up to at least mid-knee), patched work clothes.

When Nick was not out in his shop in the barn, he sat in his father’s chair by the kitchen table and read by the hour. Sometimes he just sat there, watching his mother’s deft hands and the needle going in and out, as if he were listening to a piece of music. They communicated almost entirely by silence, these two, but they were so attuned to each other that Nick knew when his mother had a headache, almost before she knew it herself. And Ellen knew without a word whether he was sitting there watching her quietly because he felt happy and at peace, or whether he was controlling a storm of nerves. If the latter, she sometimes spoke, with an instinct to take Nick’s mind off his anxiety: “Christina’s leg’s bothering her. Never has been right since that horse threw her,” or “I’m thinking of digging up the sweet-pea bed—we might have an early winter,” or “I do hope Netta brings the pies for Thanksgiving this year.”

A great deal more went on in the heads of these two than ever came out of their mouths. It remained a surprise to Ellen the things Christina could talk about, how she ran on about everything. Ellen found herself saying things she never even knew she thought when they were together. But a walk like the one they had before the bicentennial committee meeting had become a rare treat.

Unconsciously Ellen sighed. Nick lifted his head, but when she went on making quick, deft stitches in the hem she was turning, he went back to his Sports Illustrated. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. A long streamer of sun picked out the worn places in the linoleum. After another silence, he got up and put the coffeepot onto the warm burner, and Ellen raised her head and smiled. Nick always knew when she needed a cup of coffee.