“Oh, I do’ know. There’s a plenty o’ time. Dinner won’t be ready tell two past.”
“She ain’t b’en to see you fer five year, has she?” said the neighbor. “I reckon you’ll have a right scrumptious set-out fer ’em?”
“I will so,” said Mrs. Risley, ignoring the other question. “Her husband’s comin’.”
“I want to know! Why, he just thinks he’s some punkins, I hear.”
“Well, he’s rich enough to think hisself anything he wants to,” Mrs. Risley’s voice took on a tone of pride.
“I sh’u’d think you’d want to go an’ live with ’em. It’s offul hard fer you to live here all alone, with your rheumatiz.”
Mrs. Risley stooped to lay a stick of wood on the fire.
“I’ve worked nigh onto two weeks over this dinner,” she said, “a-seed’n’ raisins an’ cur’nts, an’ things. I’ve hed to skimp harrable, Mis’ Tomlinson, to get it; but it’s just—perfec’. Roast goose an’ cranberry sass, an’ cel’ry soup, an’ mince an’ punkin pie,—to say nothin’ o’ plum-puddin’! An’ cookies an’ cur’nt-jell tarts fer the children. I’ll hev to wear my old underclo’s all winter to pay fer ’t; but I don’t care.”
“I sh’u’d think your daughter’d keep you more comf’terble, seein’ her husband’s so rich.”
There was a silence. Mrs. Risley’s face grew stern. The gold-colored cat came and arched her back for a caress. “My bread riz beautiful,” Mrs. Risley said then. “I worried so over ’t. An’ my fruit-cake smells that good when I open the stun crock! I put a hull cup o’ brandy in it. Well, I guess you’ll hev to excuse me. I’ve got to set the table.”