It was dusk before they reached the little house on the outskirts of the town; Mr. Ford had offered to send the basket, but Blue Bonnet had looked so disappointed at the mere thought of this that Mrs. Clyde said they would take it themselves.
It was a bare, forlorn little house, standing by itself at the top of a low hill and looking more than usually dreary in the gray November twilight, with the wind rattling the loosely hanging blinds, and tossing the leafless branches of the bent and twisted old trees.
Two or three dogs came barking about the carriage as Denham drew up before the open gate; their noise brought a woman to the kitchen door.
“Is it you, ma’am?” she said, coming quickly down the path, followed by any number of small, untidy children.
“This is ‘Miss Elizabeth’s’ daughter, Jenny,” Mrs. Clyde said. Jenny Patterson had been second girl at the Clyde’s before her marriage and a favorite with her mistress, who had never lost sight of her. “She has come to bring the children some Thanksgiving.”
“And I’m sure we’re most grateful to her for doin’ it.” Mrs. Patterson looked up at Blue Bonnet a little curiously. “I’ve been wantin’ to see ‘Miss Elizabeth’s’ girl; I’ve heard tell a powerful lot about her.”
Blue Bonnet laughed. “I didn’t know I was so famous! I suppose the children like turkey?”
“That they do, miss! Though it’d begun to look like they weren’t goin’ to have any this year. Patterson ain’t been takin’ much heart in things lately. He’s kind—Patterson is, but I ain’t denyin’ he’s easy discouraged.”
Denham had carried the basket indoors, not unattended; and his short cough now, as he gathered up the reins again, said as plainly as words that it was quite time he was getting his horses home.
“We must go now, Jenny,” Mrs. Clyde said. “Good night.”