“Send for him—now?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Yes. Now—right off. In time for to-morrow!”
“He could not get here,” she whispered.
“Yes, he could. If you send him a telegram with one word in it: ‘Come’—and sign it ‘Caroline’—he’ll be here on to-morrow mornin’s train, or I’ll eat my hat and one of Abbie’s bonnets hove in. Think you could, Caroline?”
A moment; then in a whisper, “Yes, Uncle Elisha.”
“Hooray! But—but,” anxiously, “hold on, Caroline. Tell me truly now. You ain’t doin’ this just to please me? You mustn’t do that, not for the world and all. You mustn’t send for him on my account. Only just for one reason—because you want him.”
He waited for his answer. Then she looked up, blushing still, but with a smile trembling on her lips.
“Yes, Uncle Elisha,” she said, “because I want him.”
The clouds blew away that night, and Thanksgiving day dawned clear and cold. The gray sea was now blue; the white paint of the houses and fences glistened in the sun; the groves of pitchpine were brilliant green blotches spread like rugs here and there on the brown hills. South Denboro had thrown off its gloomy raiment and was “all dolled up for Thanksgivin’,” so Captain Elisha said.