Angela, who had no sisters of her own, loved Jacob's oldest sister, saw her as extraordinarily courageous and noble. She, the oldest sister, was a woman who knew celibacy, though she had borne from her own body six daughters. The youngest died within days of its birth, perhaps to be with her father who had died four months before. The other five girls, ages 2 to 10, remained to gather round their mother like rowdy postulants. Every Easter she lined them all up, wearing the new dresses she had sewn herself, to take their photograph in the yard by the front porch. Five pairs of white gloves and five little white-brimmed hats, ribbons whipping in the midwestern April winds. Such a superior woman. Angela watched her from the distance of a foreigner, at one time even wanting to write about her. She seemed the model of dignity, common sense, hard work, and calm endurance, not only to her houseful of girls, but to everyone in her rural community. There was no way to know if it was easier or more difficult without a husband by her side, but everyone believed the latter of course and lent a hand whenever possible. No favor went unreturned, usually twice over. Her life was one of rigorous devotion to others. Hands always making something for someone, her own self-sacrifice never obvious, she laughed and teased the ones she loved with a dry and knowing tone. Her beauty could not be undone. - from Quibbling