“Put that in also. It will do those frozen-up souls good, once in the year.”
At last impatient Kitty was off. Bridget and the basket filled all the spare space in the coupé, and when they reached Hudson Street, Luke took the dinner and followed Kitty upstairs, while Bridget stood by the horse’s head, according to the programme. He set the basket down in the hall, where no one would be likely to notice it in opening the door, and then he stood out of sight himself, while Kitty went in.
There was Tom, in the warm crimson thibet,—a proud, happy-looking Tom as you could find in Boston that Thanksgiving Day.
“I have come to take you to ride,” cried eager Kitty. “Will you go?”
It was worth ten ordinary Thanksgivings to see the look on Tom’s face,—the joy and wonder, and then the doubt, as the breathless question came,—
“How will I get downstairs?”
And then Luke was called in, and that mystery was solved. And then out of a closet came the warm jacket, and the hat, with its gay feather; and there were tears in Tom’s eyes, and smiles round her lips, and she tried to say something, and broke down utterly. And then big, strong Luke took her up as if she were a baby and marched downstairs with her, while she heard Kitty say,—but it all seemed to her like a dream, and Kitty’s voice like a voice in a dream,—
“I’m sorry there’s nothing pretty to see at this time of year. It was so lovely out-doors six weeks ago.”
Through Beach Street they went, and then through Boylston, and the Common was beside them, with its tree-boughs traced against the November sky, and the sun shone on the Frog Pond, and the dome of the State House glittered goldenly, and there were merry people walking about everywhere, with their Thanksgiving faces on; and at last Tom breathed a long, deep breath which was almost a sob, and cried,—