A slow, broad smile grew on Hiram’s bronzed face, and he watched motionless while Betsy opened her treasures.
Only Mrs. Pogram’s breathless ejaculations broke the stillness.
“I never!—I never did!—Fit for a queen!—And I wanted to give you a spoon!”
For the morocco cases held silver with the rose pattern which Irving knew that Betsy loved.
There were a dozen tea-spoons, half a dozen table-spoons, and the same number of forks and silver knives. A silver teapot, cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl of colonial design crowned the show. Every article except the knives was engraved with an F. upon which Captain Salter gazed with admiration.
The good soul could not even begrudge Mrs. Pogram’s presence at the unveiling of so much splendor; for the raven more nearly resembled a lark now, in her chirps and cries of joy.
Hiram held his wife in an embrace while they stood looking upon the array.
“You want to bring the burglars down on me, that’s what you want, Betsy.”
“Oh, it’s too handsome, too handsome!” Betsy was murmuring. “Mr. Irving hadn’t ought to spent so much money!” She held the card against her breast.
“I hain’t a particle of objection,” said Hiram jovially. “Would you have, Mrs. Pogram?”