But there was no doubt of one thing,—that our Halloween at Westover was a famous little party.
"How do you all feel about it?" asked Barbara, sitting down on the hearth in the brown room, before the embers, and throwing the nuts she had picked up about the carpet into the coals.
We had carried the supper-dishes away into the out-room, and set them on a great spare table that we kept there. "The room is as good as the girl," said Barbara. It is a comfort to put by things, with a clear conscience, to a more rested time. We should let them be over the Sunday; Monday morning would be all china and soapsuds; then there would be a nice, freshly arrayed dresser, from top to bottom, and we should have had both a party and a piece of fall cleaning.
"How do you feel about it?"
"I feel as if we had had a real own party, ourselves," said Ruth; "not as if 'the girls' had come and had a party here. There wasn't anybody to show us how!"
"Except Miss Pennington. And wasn't it bewitchinating of her to come? Nobody can say now—"
"What do you say it for, then?" interrupted Rosamond. "It was very nice of Miss Pennington, and kind, considering it was a young party. Otherwise, why shouldn't she?"