“‘What is it?’ said Sue. ‘It doesn’t belong here, does it?’
“‘There’s ‘Mr. Peg’ on it,’ said one of the men; ‘and this is Mr. Peg’s house, ain’t it?’
“‘What is it?’ said Sue, in astonishment, as the barrel now stood up on end at the end of her chest-table.
“‘It’s a barrel of flour, I guess,’ said the man. ‘Looks like it; and it come from Mr. Hoonuman’s.’
“‘Flour!’ said Sue.
“But the men with their heavy snow shoes clumped out again, and shut the door behind them with a bang. Sue stood and looked.
“There was the barrel, full-sized, standing on end, one side of it still lightly coated with snow; and there were the snow-marks on the floor of the feet that had been there. It wasn’t a dream. It was a real barrel, and even the snow wasn’t in a hurry to melt away.
“Suddenly it flashed into Sue’s little mind that it might be a Christmas!—and then whoever sent it ought to have been there, when the unwonted rosy colour sprang to her cheeks and made her for a minute look like a well-to-do child. And whoever sent it ought to have seen, a minute after, the bended head, and heard the thanksgiving that was not spoken, and the prayer, earnest and deep, for a blessing on the friend that had sent it.
“Sue had lifted her head, but had not moved from a foothold, when Roswald opened the door.
“‘O Roswald! do you see this?’