“Were there many out at church this morning?” asked Grandmother. “Was Mr. Drew’s sermon good?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Grandfather, “that I have to go out this afternoon. I promised Parson Drew that I would take something to eat down to the Widow Banks. The Young People’s Society gave her five dollars to buy a Thanksgiving dinner for herself and her six children, and if she didn’t go spend the five dollars on a crepe veil and a Bible.”
Grandfather gave a chuckle as he thought of the surprise that the Widow Banks had given the Young People.
“I don’t blame her,” said he stoutly. “She probably takes more pride and pleasure in what she bought than we can imagine. The neighbors won’t let her starve. You fix up a good basket for her, won’t you, Grandmother?”
And that Mrs. Whiting did, though she shook her head over what she termed “extravagance and shiftlessness.”
A little later, Susan and Mr. Whiting, who carried a large basket, the contents of which would mean far more to the six hungry Banks orphans than would a crepe veil and a Bible, started down Featherbed Lane on their charitable errand.
“The air will do Susan good,” Grandfather declared. “And if she is tired, I will carry her home. It isn’t far, anyway.”
Susan enjoyed both the walk and the short call they made at the dingy little white house in the Hollow.
Mrs. Banks, a thin, tearful wisp of a woman, with pale-blue eyes and untidy hair, gratefully accepted their offering; and the six sorrowful little Banks cheered up immediately when word went round as to what the basket held, so their visitors made haste to be gone, that they might be kept no longer from their Thanksgiving feast.
While Mr. Whiting talked to Mrs. Banks, Susan gazed round the poor little room, and eyed the Banks orphans standing in a row like steps, who, to do them justice, quite as frankly eyed her in return. The crepe veil was not in evidence, but on the mantelpiece lay the new Bible, black and shiny, and smelling powerfully of leather.