“Mayn’t I share the good thought, Señorita?” Mr. Winthrop asked.
Blue Bonnet looked confused. This was what came of letting one’s thoughts run away with one before people.
“Do you know,” she said, hurriedly, “this is my first real New England Thanksgiving.”
“Was that the reason you appeared in Spanish costume?”
“You asked that just the way Aunt Lucinda asks things sometimes! It must be a Boston fashion.”
“Possibly. And how are you enjoying your ‘New England Thanksgiving’?”
Blue Bonnet looked thoughtfully up and down the long table, with Grandmother at the head and Aunt Lucinda at the foot. The shades had been drawn and the only light came from the wax candles in the tall silver candelabra on table and mantel. They cast a soft, mellow light about the room and over the perfectly appointed table, in the centre of which stood the best Blue Canton bowl, filled with great, tawny chrysanthemums.
“I like it,” she said slowly, finding it hard to express her feeling; “it is so—homey and—familified. I like to think of how many Thanksgiving dinners must have been held in this very room—I don’t mean just the dinner part—anyone can have turkey and such things—but the way in which it has been done—like to-day. And it is nice to be part Clyde, isn’t it?”
“Very; though it is an honor I can lay no claim to.”
Blue Bonnet laughed; she liked Cousin Tracy, he treated her as if she were quite grown-up. “But the Winthrops are—” she hesitated.