"Then Uncle Henry wasn't gone to heaven," cried little Prudy. "Hasn't he been to heaven at all?"
"No, of course not," said Susie: "didn't you hear 'em say he'd be here to-night?—Now you've got on the nicest kind of a dress, and if you spot it up 'twill be awful."
"I guess," pursued Prudy, "the man that shooted found 'twas Uncle Henry, and so he didn't want to kill him down dead."
How the family found time to do so many things that day I do not know, especially as each one was in somebody's way, and the children under everybody's feet. But before night the pantry was full of nice things, the whole house was as fresh as a rose, and the parlors were adorned with autumn flowers and green garlands.
Not only the kerosene lamps, but all the old oil lamps, were filled, and every candlestick, whether brass, iron, or glass, was used to hold a sperm candle; so that in the evening the house at every window was all ablaze with light. The front door stood wide open, and the piazza and part of the lawn were as bright as day. The double gate had been unlatched for hours, and everybody waiting for the carriage to drive up.
The hard, uncomfortable stage, which Horace had said was like a baby-jumper, would never do for a sick man to ride in: so Billy Green had driven to the cars in his easiest carriage, and Aunt Madge had gone with him, for she was afraid neither Billy nor the gentleman who was with Captain Clifford would know how to wrap the shawls about him carefully enough.
I could never describe the joyful meeting which took place in those brilliantly lighted parlors. It is very rarely that such wonderful happiness falls to anyone's lot in this world.
While the smiles are yet bright on their faces, while Grace is clinging to her father's neck, and Horace hugs his new "real drum" in one arm, embracing his dear papa with the other, let us take leave of them and the whole family for the present, with many kind good-bys.
THE END
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