Aunt ’Mira would not consent to Nelson’s going home that night. “The Widder Beasely’ll know you’ve stepped in somewhere,” she said, with confidence. “This storm ain’t fit for a dog to be out in; and after your illness, Mr. Haley, you’ve been exposed enough for once’t, I declare for’t!”
Janice’s eyes shone. Their tender glances, bent upon him in confirmation of her aunt’s invitation, would have kept Nelson if no other consideration would.
“Bully!” shouted the exuberant Marty. “If Walky Dexter comes down, we’ll have a grand game of parchesi.”
Her son declared that Aunt ’Mira “did herself proud” in that supper. She believed in putting forth her best for the minister or the school teacher. Fried ham, home smoked; shirred eggs in individual ramikins; potato chips as crisp and dry as autumn leaves; fluffy biscuit; golden butter, despite the season, for Aunt ’Mira knew how to use the carrot juice in just the right amount when she colored it; heaps of brown doughnuts at either end of the table, “where they’d be handiest”; a plate piled with wedges of moist, yellow cheese—all this besides a variety of cake, preserves, pickles, and the inevitable pie. The Widow Beasely might set a good table; but she could not beat Aunt ’Mira when the latter set out to do her best.
After the adventures of the afternoon Nelson, at least, did full justice to the meal. And all through it they redescribed their adventures to each other. The loss of little Lottie in the snow brought this comment from Uncle Jason:
“I swow! I dunno nobody who needs a wife more’n Hopewell, if only to keep that young’un in leash. She’s as wild as a hawk.”
“I hope Mr. Bowman isn’t badly hurt,” said Janice. “He is so anxious about that bridgework.”
“He’s a nice feller to work for,” volunteered Marty. Then, wistfully: “I’d love to have his job. I think being a civil engineer is about the nicest thing a feller can do.”
“Huh!” grunted his father, who had been hearing a good deal of this sort of talk of late, “you l’arn to be civil now; time enough to git to be an engineer when you air older.”
“Mr. Bowman is a fine fellow, I think myself,” Nelson hastened to say, covering up this little family bickering. “I never knew him at all till we were out in the storm together to-day. He has pluck all right.”