All three girls had white coats and white felt hats, and Miss Ashton thought they looked very nice as they sat waiting for the taxi.
“This is called the Longfellow bridge,” said Miss Ashton, as they were crossing that lengthy span over the Charles River into Cambridge.
“Oh, is this where he was when he wrote—‘I stood on the bridge at midnight’?” cried Martha.
“This is the bridge he was referring to when he wrote that line,” laughed Miss Ashton. “He was inspired to write it, while standing on this bridge.”
“Yes, Mart,” said the irrepressible Nancy, who was overflowing with fun to-day, “but he probably waited until he got home to write the poem. There wouldn’t be much light here on the bridge at midnight, you know; especially in Longfellow’s time.”
Martha refused to say another word until they were going up the brick walk toward an old colonial house set well back on a shrub-dotted lawn, with several great elm trees spreading protecting branches over all.
“Some house,” she whispered, inelegantly, to Jeanette.
There was no chance to reply; for Jim stood at the top of the steps ready to welcome them. In the doorway was a beautiful white-haired woman, and in the dimness of the hall, just back of her, hovered a big, genial-looking man.
“Come right in here,” said their hostess, after introductions were over, and Jim had taken their coats; and she led them into the library on the left of the long hall, which ran through the center of the house.
“It's really not cool enough for a hearth fire to-day,” she went on; “but I think it looks so cozy that I just couldn't resist the temptation to have one started.”