“What do you think!” she cried. “That was the woman that brought me my turkey. She knew the minister and his wife were to be with me to-day. She wants to know why they’ve been eating a lunch in a cutter out that way. Do you suppose——”
They all looked at one another doubtfully, then in abrupt conviction. “They went because they wanted us to have the day to ourselves!”
“Arthur,” said Mrs. Tilton with immense determination, “let me whisper to you, too.” And from that moment’s privacy he also returned smiling, but a bit ruefully.
“Mother ought to be the president of a university,” he said.
“Mother ought to be the head of a law firm,” said Edward.
“Mother ought to write a book about herself,” said Ricky.
“Mother’s mother,” said Grace, “and that’s enough. But you’re all so mysterious, except me.”
“Grace,” said Mrs. Tilton, “you remind me that I want to whisper to you.”
Their train left in the late afternoon. Through the white streets they walked to the station, the somber little woman, the buoyant, capable daughter, the three big sons. She drew them to seclusion down by the baggage-room and gave them four envelopes.
“Here’s the rest of my Christmas for you,” she said. “I’d rather you’d open it on the train. Now, Ricky, what’s yours?”