Meantime the two middlers had shoveled out the road down to the mail-box on the street so that I ran up on bare earth, the very wheels of the car conscious of the love behind the shovels, of the speed and energy it took to get the long job done before I should arrive.
"How did she come up?" calls Beebum as he opens the house door for me, his cheeks still glowing with the cold and exercise.
"Did we give you wide enough swing at the bend?" cries Bitsie, seizing the bag of bananas.
"Oh, we sailed up—took that curve like a bird—didn't need chains—just like a boulevard right into the barn!"
"It's a fearful night out, is n't it?" she says, taking both of my hands in hers, a touch of awe, a note of thankfulness in her voice.
"Bad night in Boston!" I exclaim. "Trains late, cars stalled—streets blocked with snow. I 'm mighty glad to be out here a night like this."
"Woof! Woof!"—And Babe and Pup are at the kitchen door with the pail of milk, shaking themselves free from snow.
"Where is Mansie?" his mother asks.
"He just ran down to have a last look at his chickens."
We sit down to dinner, but Mansie does n't come. The wind whistles outside, the snow sweeps up against the windows,—the night grows wilder and fiercer.