“Who is up in my room?” he cried, and rushed up, to witness the presence of Mrs. Hallock, Kate, and the transformation.
“You can’t get rid of taking corn this time, when St. Nicholas sends it to you!” cried Kate, positively trembling with excitement. She was excited by giving, and also at the effect of her gift.
“Can’t I go, too?” asked Frank of Mrs. Dobson. “I had the hardest work to keep him from thinking the house was on fire, and made believe I didn’t see any smoke. My! how the folks did snivel down on the Point when they saw the turkeys and things. I don’t see why women always will cry and make such a fuss when they’re glad a bit. Did you say I might go?”—edging toward the stairway.
“Yes, yes, Frank.” Mrs. Dobson was busy just then peeping into her oven. She had had hard work to get her new chair covered up in time, so that Harry should not see it as he entered the kitchen.
Frank tried to step softly, but his boots had been wet, and they creaked so that it was of no use; so he gave it up, and walked into Harry’s room.
“Halloa, old fellow! What’s happened here? Most got your wings on, haven’t you? Real butterfly colors, too—blue and yellow! I declare you look well in them,” throwing himself into one of the chairs that had been placed invitingly before the fire.
As for poor Harry, he looked more sorry than glad; and the only words he said, when he began to realize that the furniture was his own, were:
“I wish my mother could have had them—she did love pretty things so!”
“Didn’t she have them?” asked Kate impulsively. “I thought you said your mother was a lady once?”
“Yes, she was,” said Harry; “but my father hadn’t money to buy her pretty things with.”