The good lady had but one wagon load of goods to be transferred from her old quarters to the new home. Many of the articles she brought were heirlooms which she had stored in the boarding house cellar, or articles associated with her happy married life, which had been shortened by her husband's death when he was comparatively a young man.
These Mrs. Atterson saw piled on the wagon early on Saturday morning, and she had insisted upon climbing upon the seat beside the driver herself and riding with him all the way.
The boarders gathered on the steps to see her go. The two spinster ladies had already taken possession, and had served breakfast to the disgruntled members of Mother Atterson's family.
“You'll be back again,” prophesied Mr. Crackit, shaking the old lady by the hand. “And when you do, just let me know. I'll come and board with you.”
“I wouldn't have you in my house again, Fred Crackit, for two farms,” declared the ex-boarding house keeper, with asperity.
“I hope you told these people about my hot water, Mrs. Atterson,” croaked Mr. Peebles, from the step, where he stood muffled in a shawl because of the raw morning air.
“If I didn't you can tell 'em yourself,” returned she, with satisfaction.
And so it went—the good-byes of these unappreciative boarders selfish to the last! Mother Atterson sighed—a long, happy, and satisfying sigh—when the lumbering wagon turned the first corner.
“Thanks be!” she murmured. “I sha'n't care if they don't have a driblet of gravy at supper tonight.”
Then she shook herself and stared straight ahead. On the very next corner—she had insisted that none of the other people at the house should observe their flitting—stood two figures, both forlorn.