Cyrus caught the flicker also, and I saw the color leap up under his dark skin. In almost any other family there would have been some chaffing. I said to myself that if Rob had come home he might have led Dave into some such enormity, for Dave, big as he was, could still be led as Estelle had led him; and Rob was no respecter of persons. But, in truth, we had never found our brother Cyrus a person with whom to jest.
Later we had Leander in with his fiddle—which he always called “she” and regarded with great affection—and Hiram Nute to sing “My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose,” and “Wandering Willie,” in a clear, high tenor, which cracked a little on the upper notes.
And none of us were merrier than grandma, to whom Dave’s coming had been a delightful surprise. Although she leaned upon Cyrus, and his devotion was a beautiful thing to see, and was fond of every one of her grandchildren, yet, as we all knew, it was Dave who was the very pulse of her heart. It was long before we saw her so merry again!
Uncle Horace came to the Thanksgiving next day, and Parson Grover, who was a widower now, and had Marilla Gooch to keep house for him—and she was suspected by Loveday of frying his beefsteak and not properly airing his sheets. Then there were Great-Uncle Silas, grandmother’s brother, and his wife, old and childless, and Cousin Sarah Saunders and her seven children from the Port.
Grandma sat with Cyrus on one side of her and Dave on the other, and a pink flush like the rose of youth burned in her soft, seamy cheeks.
Uncle Horace, at the foot of the table, had the minister on one side of him and on the other Dr. Yorke, Alice’s father, a snowy-haired little man whose black eyes were as keen as his daughter’s were bright.
Parson Grover said a lengthy grace; it was a habit of his and one not to be foregone at Thanksgiving, of course. It was the grace after meat that grandfather always preferred—because it was easier to get the children into a subdued and devotional mood after a meal than before. Parson Grover alluded to each one of us almost by name. He returned thanks for our joy in the unexpected return of the noble youth who had shown by his coming that his most highly prized pleasures were found by the home hearthstone “and in the affections of his family.”
I peeped—I may as well confess it. Dave did always so dislike to be brought into notice in that way, and he had now become accustomed to less primitive manners than those of Palmyra and unused to dear Parson Grover’s fatherly familiarity.
I had expected that he would look disturbed but I was not prepared for the white misery in his face. He sprang to his feet almost before Parson Grover had said Amen.
“I can’t listen to that—that about me, you know,” he said, and it was evident that there was a boyish lump in his throat, although he held his voice so firm.