But
he saw the color creep up over her forehead.
"Send for him--now?" she asked, in a low tone.
"Yes. Now--right off. In time for to-morrow!"
"He could not get here," she whispered.
"Yes, he could. If you send him a telegram with one word in it:
'Come'--and sign it 'Caroline'--he'll be here on to-morrow mornin's
train, or I'll eat my hat and one of Abbie's bonnets hove in. Think you
could, Caroline?"
A moment; then in a whisper, "Yes, Uncle Elisha."
"Hooray! But--but," anxiously, "hold on, Caroline. Tell me truly now.
You ain't doin' this just to please me? You mustn't do that, not for the
world and all. You mustn't send for him on my account. Only just for one
reason--because YOU want him."
He waited for his answer. Then she looked up, blushing still, but with a
smile trembling on her lips.
"Yes, Uncle Elisha," she said, "because _I_ want him."
The clouds blew away that night, and Thanksgiving day dawned clear
and cold. The gray sea was now blue; the white paint of the houses and
fences glistened in the sun; the groves of pitchpine were brilliant
green blotches spread like rugs here and there on the brown hills. South
Denboro had thrown off its gloomy raiment and was "all dolled up for
Thanksgivin'," so Captain Elisha said.
Pages:
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461