And so the days fared on much as I have described until there came an evening when something happened. It was an evening early in October, and our little party sitting down to their six o'clock supper were every one in a particularly happy frame of mind. The sun had gone down in a blaze of gold and crimson, and the river, which is wide enough below the bridge to be dignified as a bay, lay like a mirror reflecting the marvellous color. Later, when the twilight was fusing all the varying shades into a fleecy, wondrously tinted gray; a brisk little breeze strode up from the west, and instantly the water rose in myriad tiny waves to meet it, and each wave donned a “white-cap,” as in honor of its coming.
Low down on the horizon the veriest thread of a new moon was paying court to the evening star, that was also near its setting, but both still shone out with more than common brilliancy through the early evening air. Here, then, was one cause for the generally happy feeling, and another, no doubt, lay in the all-pervading cheeriness of the little home. Humble and small it was, to be sure, but there was comfort, and plenty of it, on every side—comfort in the mere sight of the daintily set table; comfort of a very substantial kind in the contents of the shining teapot, in the scrambled eggs sizzling away in a chafing-dish, which Sylvia had cleverly concocted, and, above all, in the aroma, as well as in the taste, of the deliciously browned toast. People who chanced to come driving over glanced in at the cosey, lamp-lighted table, caught a whiff of the savory odors, and then the moment they were off the draw urged on their horses in elusive hope of finding something as inviting at home. During the progress of the meal, and while Sylvia, who was an inimitable little mimic, was giving a lisping impersonation of one of the teachers at the Asylum, a carriage rolled rapidly by, and some one called, “Hello there, Courage!” Quickly recognizing the voice, Courage rushed out-of-doors, almost upsetting the table in her eagerness, but even then Miss Julia was a long way past, having actually trotted her ponies right over the draw itself in most unprecedented fashion. This was a grave offence in David's eyes, and Courage, retaking her seat at the table, wondered what he would have to say about it.
“Miss Julia must have been in a great hurry,” she ventured.
“Yes, a ten-dollar hurry,” growled David.
“Oh, you won't fine her!” Courage exclaimed, alarmed at the mere thought of anything so ungracious; “she just couldn't have been thinking.”
“Well, then, we'll just teach her how to think;” but Sylvia, quite sure that she detected a lack of determination in David's tone, said complacently, “Neber you fear, Miss Courage. Mr. David don' sure nuff mean what he sez, I reckon,” whereupon Mr. David shook his head, as much as to say, “Well, he rather guessed he did,” but Courage saw with relief that there really was nothing to fear. After supper Larry and David took a turn on the bridge while the table was being cleared, and then coming back to the little living-room, Courage read aloud for an hour from one of Sylvia Sylvester's namesake books. It chanced to be the incomparable story of “Alice in Wonderland,” and David and Larry were as charmed as the little folk themselves. At nine o'clock the book was laid away and Larry went directly to bed. Courage and Sylvia hurried into coats and hats for a run in the bracing night air, and David, stopping first to light his pipe, followed them out onto the bridge. All three found to their surprise that the sky had grown suddenly lowering and overcast, while the breeze of the twilight was fast stiffening to a vigorous west wind.
“We're in for a blow, I'm thinkin',” said David, looking down-river, with the children standing beside him, “and, bless me! there isn't a star to be seen. Who'd a-thought it after that sunset.”