Janet looked into her cousin's amused eyes, but she was thinking of what he said about his being a 'wreck'. "You were in the war, weren't you, Cousin Andy?"
"Yes,--shell-shocked, shot up in a few places that seem to do as much damage as possible. But at that I'm better off than thousands of the boys, forgotten in the hospitals now." Andrew's voice was a little bitter. "Don't ask me to tell you about it, child. It's better for me to do the forgetting. I'm thirty years old, and I'm older than my father."
"You don't look it," smiled Janet engagingly. "I think that you are very nice."
The little remark pleased Andrew. "Well, you are a nice little pal, then. We'll be friends."
"Yes, Janet, but not very well." Andrew looked sober. "She was a beautiful and charming girl, but she did not care for my father. He was so much older, for one thing, and I fancy that she thought him dictatorial. We did not live here when she grew up. My father married and lived in Albany, where my brothers and sisters and I were born."
This again was news to Janet, who asked about these cousins. But only a sister with one daughter was living. They were abroad, but might come to the farm for the summer.
"Where are the Van Meters buried?" asked Janet.
"Why do you want to know that?" asked Andrew in his turn. "You want only bright things here."
"I just thought that I might take some flowers to my mother's grave," she replied. "That was all,--just once, perhaps, to show that I am glad to know about her."
"Why, little cousin, we knew nothing about it and supposed that she is buried by your father. Father took over the place to relieve grandfather. Your mother's things were all here, but she did not send for them and was coming to visit that summer after you were born. Then we heard that you all had been wiped out in an epidemic of some sort, like the 'flu' that we had during the war. It was past before we knew."
Janet, surprised, was about to tell her cousin about her father and the brief story that she knew, but Uncle Pieter had silently entered and was standing beside her, saying, "Come, no sad memories. Let us have some of Paulina's griddle cakes."
Janet followed her uncle in silence, wondering at his jovial tone, for it was not in harmony with his usual style. He was just a little queer. No wonder that her mother did not like him very well. But he was being good to her. She must remember that. Griddle cakes, bacon and the sweet maple syrup were very good indeed. Janet noticed that as they all left the table Paulina handed Mrs. Holt a note, a folded scrap of paper, which she read with a frown. Paulina had gone back to the kitchen without a smile to relieve her rather dour, defensive expression.