"And so I have your bond. My present will make you open your eyes."
"And pocket-book too, I suppose. I'll trust you, however, not to break me. What is it to be?"
"I'll tell you the day before, and not till then."
After supper they drew around the stove. Mrs. Banning got out her knitting, as usual, and prepared for city gossip. The farmer rubbed his hands over the general aspect of comfort, and especially over the regained presence of his child's bright face. "Well, Sue," he remarked, "you'll own that this room IN the house doesn't look very bleak?"
"No, father, I'll own nothing of the kind. Your face and mother's are not bleak, but the room is."
"Well," said the farmer, rather disconsolately, "I fear the old place has been spoiled for you. I was saying to mother before you came home—"
"There now, father, no matter about what you were saying. Let Susie tell us why the room is bleak."
The girl laughed softly, got up, and taking a billet of wood from the box, put it into the air-tight. "The stove has swallowed it just as old Trip did his supper. Shame! you greedy dog," she added, caressing a great Newfoundland that would not leave her a moment. "Why can't you learn to eat your meals like a gentleman?" Then to her father, "Suppose we could sit here and see the flames curling all over and around that stick. Even a camp in the woods is jolly when lighted up by a flickering blaze."
"Oh—h!" said the farmer; "you think an open fire would take away the bleakness?"
"Certainly. The room would be changed instantly, and mother's face would look young and rosy again. The blue-black of this sheet-iron stove makes the room look blue-black."