It was Grandma Horton, and she remembered Sunny Boy without a bit of trouble; though, as he had been only two weeks old the last time she had seen him, he could not be expected to remember her.
“And this is Araminta,” said Grandma, drawing the little red-haired girl forward. “She is my right hand in the house. You recall Jimmie, Olive?”
Jimmie was the young man holding the horses. He came and shook hands with Mrs. Horton, blushing a little, and chucked Sunny under the chin. Then he took the team away to the barn, and Mother and Sunny Boy and Grandpa and Grandma Horton and Araminta went in to supper.
They had wonderful fresh foamy milk to drink, and hot biscuits and cold ham for the grown-ups. Sunny Boy was not expected to eat those—not at night. There were baked apples, too, and honey and cookies. Sunny, seated before a bowl of bread and milk, held a cookie in his hand and wondered what was the matter with the hanging lamp with the pretty red shade. It swung up and down like a train lantern.
“He’s sleepy,” he heard some one say. It sounded like Araminta.
He opened his eyes as wide as he could make them go, tried to take another bite of cookie and made one last desperate effort to smile. The smile ran into a yawn, and Sunny Boy gave up and tumbled, a tired little ball of weariness, into Mother’s lap.
He never knew who carried him upstairs, or when he was undressed. So, waking in the morning to find the sun shining in four windows at once, and Mother in her blue dressing gown brushing her hair, he was a bit surprised.
“Hello!” said Mother gayly. “How do you think you are going to like the country?”
“Are the chickens up?” asked Sunny Boy.
“Hours ago. Mr. Rooster crowing under our window woke me up at five o’clock,” replied Mrs. Horton. “I heard Jimmie bring in the milk a few minutes before you sat up. And if you want to ride into town with him after the trunk—”