“It’s not a bad idea—I’ll tell Gunnion to drive down and get her.”
Uncle William laid a hand on his arm. “I reckon you ’d better let George fetch her up,” he said.
“I can’t spare him,” said Bodet decisively. “Gunnion can drive back and forth all day if he wants to—” Uncle William got in his way, “I guess you better let George go, Benjy—he won’t be no time driving down there and back.”
With a little smile, Bodet yielded the point and Uncle William rolled off to find George Manning and send him out into the storm.
“You tell her to wrap up good,” he called into the sleet... “and you see she’s tucked in, George, and tell her to bring plenty of salt and pep-p-er.” The last word was whirled apart by wind, and Uncle William retired into the house, a deep smile on his face.
Within an hour Celia was there, little beading moisture on the bobbing curls, and the pink in her cheeks like a rose—the kind that grows wild and red among the rocks. Uncle William looked at her approvingly. “Did you good to get out a spell, didn’t it?” he said kindly.
“I didn’t know you were worrying about my health—” She shook the little curls. “I thought you were hungry.”
“Well, I wa ’n’t—not altogether,” Uncle William’s face was placid, “—but I wouldn’t ’a’ wanted you to get cold—I guess George tucked you in pretty good—”
“I tucked myself in,” she said. “Have you got a fire made for me?”
“Everything’s all ready, Celia.” Uncle William led her out to the tiny kitchen, tiled in white and fitted with all the contrivances for skill and swiftness. She stood looking about her—the little color in her face. “Well, this is a kitchen!” she said. She drew a deep breath.