He thought of Charlotte, as if he had been a child and she his mother.

The maternal and protecting element in her love was all that appealed to him then, and all that he missed or wanted.

"Charlotte, Charlotte," he mumbled to himself with his parched, quivering lips.
At noon the next day Cephas Barnard came home from the store; he had been down to buy some molasses.

When he entered his kitchen he set the jug down on the table with a hard clap, then stood still in his wet boots.
Sarah and Charlotte were getting dinner, both standing over the stove.

Sarah glanced at Cephas furtively, then at Charlotte; Cephas never stirred.