Jonas Hershey’s home was probably the cleanest, neatest-looking red brick house in all the county.  The board-walk from the gate to the door fairly glistened from the effects of soap and water.  The flower-beds, almost painfully neat and free from weeds, were laid out on a strictly mathematical plan.  A border of whitewashed clam-shells, laid side by side with military precision, set off the brilliant reds and yellows of the flowers, and a glance at them was like gazing into the face of the midday sun.  Tillie shaded her dazzled eyes as she walked across the garden to the side door which opened into the kitchen.  It stood open and she stepped in without ceremony.  For a moment she could see nothing but red and yellow flowers and whitewashed clam-shells.  But as her vision cleared, she perceived her neighbor, Lizzie Hershey, a well-built, healthy-looking country lass of eighteen years, cutting bread at a table, and her mother, a large fat woman wearing the Mennonite dress, standing before a huge kitchen range, stirring “ponhaus” in a caldron.

The immaculate neatness of the large kitchen gave evidence, as did garden, board-walk, and front porch, of that morbid passion for “cleaning up” characteristic of the Dutch housewife.

Jonas Hershey did a very large and lucrative business, and the work of his establishment was heavy.  But he hired no “help” and his wife and daughter worked early and late to aid him in earning the dollars which he hoarded.

“Sister Jennie!” Tillie accosted Mrs. Hershey with the New Mennonite formal greeting, “I wish you the grace and peace of the Lord.”

“The same to you, sister,” Mrs. Hershey replied, bending to receive Tillie’s kiss as the girl came up to her at the stove—­the Mennonite interpretation of the command, “Salute the brethren with a holy kiss.”

“Well, Lizzie,” was Tillie’s only greeting to the girl at the table.  Lizzie was not a member of meeting and the rules forbade the members to kiss those who were still in the world.

“Well, Tillie,” answered Lizzie, not looking up from the bread she was cutting.

Tillie instantly perceived a lack of cordiality.  Something was wrong.  Lizzie’s face was sullen and her mother’s countenance looked grim and determined.  Tillie wondered whether their evident ill-humor were in any way connected with herself, or whether her Aunty Em’s surmise were correct, and Sister Jennie was really “spited.”

“I’ve come to get two pound of mush,” she said, remembering her errand.

“It’s all,” Mrs. Hershey returned.  “We solt every cake at market, and no more’s made yet.  It was all a’ready till market was only half over.”

“Aunty Em’ll be disappointed.  She thought she’d make fried mush for supper,” said Tillie.

“Have you strangers?” inquired Mrs. Hershey.

“No, we haven’t anybody for supper, unless some come on the stage this after.  We had four for dinner.”