Betsy saw his eyes and rejoiced.
“Of course I am,” returned the girl, “but we country people aren’t used to shocks.”
He left his fur-lined overcoat in Betsy’s arms, unconscious that he was burdening her; and she clasped it to her breast as if it had been part of himself. Her boy and her girl! Her boy and her girl! And they were standing there, their hands clasping, and their eyes meeting.
Irving had not taken the uninteresting journey from Boston, and ploughed through the Fairport snow to see the New Year in with her. He had not broken away from the holiday gayeties of which Betsy had experience, to visit herself and Hiram in their snow-drift. Betsy’s heart exulted, and her cheeks were red.
“Sit up to the fire, Mr. Irving. I’m goin’ to make you some coffee,” she said.
“I didn’t ask if you had any room for me, but a blizzard seems to be starting. I can’t go to the inn, now.”
“I guess I can put you somewhere. If you don’t like the accommodations you can sit up all night. There’s plenty o’ logs in the wood-box.”
“I rather think I should like that. Have to see the New Year in, anyway. No use making two bites of a cherry.”
Just as the coffee was being poured, Captain Salter came in. “My, but that smells good!” he said; then, perceiving the new-comer—“Irvin’ Bruce, is that you?” he roared jovially. “Well, you’re a good one. You’ll be disappointed though. I haven’t got the boat far enough along yet for you to tell anything about it. I know you said you’d run up here, but I calc’lated to let you know when.”
“Too bad,” returned Irving. “I hope you don’t mind my coming, though.”