“Jabez,” he exclaimed, “you and Methuselah belong to a mutual admiration society, don’t you?”
“We’re fust rate friends, if that’s what yer meanin’,” the old man declared with a chuckle, “but horses are much the same as humans, I take it; if you like them, why turn about they like you.” Then, as the suitcase had been removed, he picked up the reins. “Heave ahead, Methuselah, we’ll cruise down to your anchorage.”
Miss Gordon laughed. “Does the old horse understand what he means?” “Indeed, he does,” the physician assured her; then, as the side door opened letting out into the snowy dusk a welcome flood of light, he called to the thin, neatly dressed woman who appeared there: “Here we are, Brazilla, bag and baggage! Miss Gordon, this is the sister of Jabez Mullet and the maker of the most famous chowder on the coast.”
The housekeeper accepted Miss Gordon’s hand, but turned at once to the tall, slender girl who stood in the background smiling at her just a bit wistfully. “Rilla, Rilla Storm, ’tain’t you! It can’t be! They’ve gone and made you over into a young lady such as comes here summers to the point.”
The housekeeper actually was wiping tears from her eyes with one corner of her immaculate apron. In a moment the girl’s arms were about her. “’Tis me, Brazilla. Maybe my clothes are different, but my heart’s the same. I couldn’t ever change inside.” Doctor Winslow had led Miss Gordon into the warm, cheerful living room, and so, for a moment, the two old friends were alone in the entry.
“I dunno what made me cry,” Miss Mullet was saying. “You can’t guess what it means to me havin’ you come for Christmas, Rilla. I sorter wish Gene Beavers was comin’, too. It’d be kind of a family gatherin’. But thar, I’m forgettin’ the biscuits that’s in the oven and me wantin’ ’em to be just the crispy brown the way Doctor Lem likes ’em.”
For a moment Muriel stood alone in the entrance hall, thinking of all that had happened since she stood there before. Then she heard a sweet voice calling to her. “Yes, Miss Gordon, I’m coming,” she replied.
Half an hour later all were seated about a festive board and Miss Gordon declared that of such delicious homey cooking she had not partaken since she was a girl.
A kerosene lamp, with a rose-colored shade, hung above the middle of the table and on the snowy cloth were the old-fashioned white dishes with gold borders that had belonged, in the long ago, to the mother of Doctor Lem.
The physician glanced over a flowering rose geranium which adorned the center of the table and smiled at Miss Gordon, who sat opposite, as he exclaimed with sincere appreciation: “You are right, Helen; I have traveled the world over, but nowhere have I found anyone who can cook to please me as can Brazilla Mullet.”