Spot did not seem to mind her at all, so she came a little nearer to make a personal impression upon him with the toe of her shoe.
Spot growled, and turned away his head a little, and as he did so, a little silver thimble fell out of the old bone and rolled upon the ground.
“My Keepsake!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. And, as she said afterward, she was so taken by surprise you could have knocked her down with a feather.
She waited half a minute to get her breath when she picked up the thimble and ran toward the house, calling with all her might: “Jim, Jim, here it is! here, come!”
Jim never remembered how he got down stairs, but there he was staring at the thimble, and so happy that he couldn’t even begin to say a word.
Mrs. Martin was just explaining to him: “you see it was Spot, and the bone, and the hot-bed fell out of it, and I knew it was not you”—when, they heard a big voice calling from the road: “Jim, Jim, come out here quick!”
They looked round, and saw farmer Turner running as fast as such a fat man could run, and waving something shiny over his head.
“Here it is!” he said, “here is that blessed spoon! I was a-plowing in a corner of the orchard, when I turned up a soft stone made of red morocco, with a silver spoon in it. Didn’t I tell you so? I never believed it. Hallo! what’s the matter?”
The matter was a most wonderful scramble. Mrs. Turner and little Nelly had run across lots, and here they were, talking, and laughing, and crying. Everybody hugged everybody else, and everybody was so glad she was so sorry, or so sorry she was so glad—farmer Turner vowed he couldn’t tell which it was most.
At last they made out that they were all very glad, and Mrs. Martin invited them all to stay to tea. They accepted the invitation, and such a tea-party never took place anywhere—not even in Boston—for the company had joy as well as hot biscuits, and happiness as well as cake.