“Well, it’s real kind of you, Hulda; something I couldn’t expect; for I hain’t treated you jest right, nohow.”
Aunt Hulda shivered; it couldn’t be with cold, for the warmth of the failing embers was still powerful.
“Seems queer you should drop down on me jest then, Hulda; for I’ve been kinder lookin’ back, and jest when you put your hand on my shoulder, I was thinkin’ of that day when horse, wagon, tin-ware and peddler, went through the bridge together.”
Aunt Hulda shivered again, and somehow managed to slip down by Small’s side. He took no notice of the circumstance, but went on.
“Yes, you were stopping with Mrs. Johnson, helping her with her thanksgiving. You were a smart girl those days. Not handsome, but kinder good, wholesome lookin’. Don’t you remember my coming round to the kitchen and jokin’ you about Cyrus Cheever, who was kinder makin’ up to you; and I sung out to you, ‘Don’t have him, Hulda, wait for me. I’ll call when I come back, and pop the question.’ But I drove off and popped through the bridge. Don’t you remember it?”
Hulda Prime answered not. Her elbows were on her knees, her chin in her hand, her eyes looking into the gleaming ruins, where broken walls and twisted machinery, stood as monuments of destruction.
Remember it! had she not waited for that return? had she not taken to heart those playful words? And out of them woven a bright dream, and built upon it year by year, the only romance of her solitary life.
“I meant it, Hulda, true as gospel I meant it.”
Hulda’s old heart gave a bound. It was no jest after all.