So they set forth homewards again.
"Cheer up, dear!" said the old gentleman, heartily, laying one hand on his little granddaughter's lap; "it will be arranged somehow. Don't you worry your little head with business. God will take care of us."
"Yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up with an instant sense of relief at these words; and then looking down again immediately to burst into tears.
CHAPTER II.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow,
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
BEN JONSON.
Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a way a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. By the time they reached their own door Fleda's spirits were at par again.
"I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said, as she jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both of us ready for supper, don't you think so?"
She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings, and then came down to the kitchen, where, standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that foundations so established could not be shaken. The blazing fire seemed to welcome her home, and bid her dismiss fear; the kettle singing on its accustomed hook, looked as if quietly ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but most un-careful face. A face it was that always had a rare union of fineness and placidness. The table stood spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every corner of the room, and Fleda began to feel as if she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from which she was very glad she had awoke.
"What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she.
"Muffins! O let me bake them, will you? I'll bake them."
"Now, Flidda," said Cynthy, "just you be quiet. There ain't no place where you call bake 'em. I'm just going to clap 'em in the reflector that's the shortest way I can take to do 'em. You keep yourself out o' muss."