Any one passing by Jim Heck's tumbled-down cottage Thanksgiving night would have been astonished at the number of gleaming lights flashing out upon the snow through the cracked and grimy window-panes, and would have stopped for a moment to listen to the sounds of revelry within doors. A fiddle squeaked in a lively, even if discordant fashion, while a banjo made frantic efforts to keep it company. There was a sound, too, as if of many feet dancing an old-fashioned break-down, which made the shanty fairly tremble under the unwonted strain upon its frail supports.
The aroma of hot coffee also floated out upon the crisp air, mingled with an odor of more substantial viands, which appealed strongly to the imagination of a passing tramp who had paused to look through a window void of shade or curtain.
Suddenly the dance ended; the music ceased with one last unearthly squeak, and for the space of a single moment almost perfect silence reigned, and then it seemed as though just previously a cyclone of noise had been running riot.
At this juncture from the doorway of the combined dining-room and kitchen the host himself announced in his most gracious manner, "Supper am suhved, ladies and gemmin; choose youah pardners and walk out!"
With one hand he pulled down the draperies which had been improvised for the occasion, and which had so far kept the glories of the feast hidden from view; whilst with the other he politely motioned his guests to cross the hospitable threshold. For a second nobody stirred; a bashfulness as sudden as it was unusual seemed to have seized old and young alike. Then a tall mulatto took his late "partner" by the arm and made a hasty exit into the supper room. This was the signal for a general stampede for seats; but when the full glories of the scene impressed themselves upon the senses of the bewildered guests, each and all stood as if rooted to the spot, staring with eyes and mouth wide open at the unexpected grandeur.
At the head of the table stood Miss Myra herself. But such a Miss Myra! Accustomed to see her always in the latest style, they had, "up to date," never beheld her attired like this.
Solomon in all his glory, the lilies of the field in their beauty, were as nothing compared to her!
She wore a trained robe of richest ivory satin, elaborately trimmed with point lace; the dusky neck and arms shone like polished ebony against the glimmering sheen of the satin.