“There wasn’t any wedding, Susan, or any cake,” answered Mrs. Whiting. “No one was invited but Miss Liza. They stood up in the parlor and Mr. Drew married them. Then they went off to Green Valley, where her husband lives.”
“Maybe she will ask me to come to see her there,” said Susan hopefully.
“Perhaps she will,” said Grandmother. “It may be the making of her, Susan,” she went on, half to herself. “She certainly was full of whims and crotchets, and would try the patience of any one but a saint like Miss Liza. Your Grandfather always said that all she needed was hard work, and I think she will have it now, for her husband was a widower with three children and an old mother, too. It may make a woman of her. I hope so, I’m sure. I know things won’t be so hard for Miss Liza, and I’m glad of that.”
And Grandmother beat her batter with such determination that her cheeks grew pink and her little white curls bobbed up and down in time with the beating.
“Is Flip coming with Miss Liza?” asked Susan.
“Um-um,” was all Grandmother answered.
So Susan put away her little bowl and went into the front hall to call upon her friend the newel post.
“You ought to be dressed up for Thanksgiving,” decided Susan, stroking her friend’s bulky form. “Which do you like best, pink or blue? Pink, did you say? Then Snowball shall wear a blue ribbon and you shall have a pink one on your neck to celebrate the day.”
Susan spent some time selecting and arranging the ribbons to suit the taste of all concerned. She then found the table set for Thanksgiving dinner, so she posted herself in the front window where she could look all the way down the lane to the gate and report to Grandmother the moment old Nero’s Roman nose was visible.
She watched and watched, and at last they came jogging along, Miss Liza well wrapped up against the cold November air that had a “feel” of snow in it, and Grandfather wearing his fur-lined gloves for the first time this season, Susan observed.