“What is the matter?” questioned Harry.
“Nothing at all, Harry; only I didn’t feel like going to bed very early, but now I’m going,” and he heard every step on the stairs, and also the sound of the latch on the door as she went into her own room.
Now Mrs. Dobson would not have told Harry, “for anything,” what I tell you. She had been reading over just three, old-time, yellow letters, and reading them had made her feel so lonely that she had gone up to Harry’s door to listen a moment to his deep breathing in his sleep, just to feel sure that she was not, as she had been for so many years, all alone in the house.
Harry Cornwall had grown very dear to Mrs. Dobson before Christmas time; and, if I must tell all the truth, the lad had grown “pretty dear” to a number of people beside; Frank Hallock thought him “just the jolliest, grandest, pokiest, saint-of-a-fellow,” he told Kate, one day in the week before Christmas, when Frank slyly suspected that Kate was making something for a present for himself, and tried to make her think that he thought it was for Harry.
Christmas morning Mrs. Hallock sent to ask Mrs. Dobson if she could spare Harry to her for an hour or two.
Mrs. Dobson could not help thinking that it was a little bit queer that Harry should be sent for on that morning of all others, but she said “Yes—most certainly—to be sure,” and off Harry went to drive with Frank down to the huts on Peconick Point, with gifts of turkeys, sugar, and tea, to persons living there.
He had been gone about half an hour when a queer looking wagon came “wheeling” down the lane.
“Dear me! I wonder who is moving, this cold weather. Christmas day, too,” sighed Mrs. Dobson, as she looked out and saw it going past. Josh was enjoying his morning nap behind the stove, but a minute after up went his long ears, and out came a bark so loud and quick and deep that it made the little woman jump.
A knock on the door, and in came Hugo.
“Christmas!” he said.