“All right, father.”
There was a new note in the woman’s voice, for this was just what she had been wishing her husband to do, but had not liked to have him take the long trip to the post-office with the weather so threatening.
The old man went out, and the woman began to prepare the supper. Twilight had come and she lighted an old-fashioned lamp, so clean that it sparkled. As she set the table she hummed the refrain of a lullaby, a little song she had often crooned when her arms had not been empty.
Suddenly the door flew open, letting in great gusts of wintry wind.
“Hurry and get that door shut, Pa. Warn’t there no letters?”
“No, but there’s this.”
The old man was carrying an old box almost too large for him to handle.
“When I went to the post-office I found there warn’t no letter and I was considerably disappointed, but as I was going by Jones’s store, Jones he comes to the door and says he, ‘Say, Si, there’s a box in here fer you!’ ‘Fer me?’ says I.
“‘It come this afternoon by express, and I guess by the looks of it, it’s from your daughter in forin’ parts,’ said he.
“So here ’tis, and now, mother, where’s the hatchet?”