"Bustle, bustle, all get ready. Mother's mistress of this house on Thanksgiving Day, if at no other time. We're commanded to obey the 'powers that be,' and if the woman who can get up such a dinner as mother can isn't a 'power,' I'd like to know where we'll find one. I'm very meek and respectful on Thanksgiving morning. Get on thy wraps, Emily. No mutiny before dinner."
She seemed very ready to go, for I think she dreaded being left alone with me. I, too, was glad to gain time, for I was strangely unnerved and apprehensive. She avoided meeting my eyes, and was inscrutable.
In a few moments we were in the family rockaway, bowling over the country at a grand pace.
"Mother's shrewd," said Mr. Yocomb; "she knew that a ride like this in the frosty air would give us an appetite for any kind of a dinner, but it will make hers taste like the Feast of Tabernacles. Let 'em go, Reuben, let 'em go!"
"Do you call this a Quaker pace?" asked Miss Warren, who sat with
Zillah on the back seat.
"Yes, I'm acting just as I feel moved. Thee's much too slow for a
Friend, Emily. Now I'll wager thee a plum that Richard likes it.
Doesn't thee, Richard?"
"Suppose a wheel should come off," I suggested. "I'm awfully nervous to-day. I was sure the train would break down or run off the track last night; then I had horrible dreams at the hotel."
"Why, Mr. Morton!" Miss Warren exclaimed, "what did you eat for supper?"
"Bless me! I don't know. Come to think of it, I didn't have any."
"Did thee have any breakfast?" asked Mr. Yocomb, who seemed greatly amused.