As Hugh and Fleda went quick up to the kitchen-door, they overtook a dark figure, at whom looking narrowly as she passed, Fleda recognised Seth Plumfield. He was joyfully let into the kitchen, and there proved to be the bearer of a huge dish, carefully covered with a napkin.
"Mother guessed you hadn't any Thanksgiving ready," he said, "and she wanted to send this down to you; so I thought I would come and fetch it myself."
"Oh, thank her! and thank you, cousin Seth; how good you are!"
"Mother ha'n't lost her old trick at 'em," said he; "so I hope that's good."
"Oh, I know it is," said Fleda. "I remember aunt Miriam's Thanksgiving chicken-pies. Now, cousin Seth, you must come in, and see aunt Lucy."
"No," said he, quietly: "I've got my farm boots on. I guess I wont see anybody but you."
But Fleda would not suffer that; and finding she could not move him, she brought her aunt out into the kitchen. Mrs. Rossitur's manner of speaking, and thanking him, quite charmed Seth, and he went away with a kindly feeling towards those gentle, bright eves, which he never forgot.
"Now, we've something for to-morrow, Hugh !" said Fleda; "and such a chicken-pie, I can tell you, as you never saw. Hugh, isn't it odd, how different a thing is in different circumstances? You don't know how glad I was when I put my hands upon that warm pie-dish, and knew what it was; and when did I ever care in New York about Emile's doings?"
"Except the almond gauffres," said Hugh, smiling.
"I never thought to be so glad of a chicken-pie," said Fleda, shaking her head.