Seizing Tommy, the two-year-old, by the hand, she hurried off ahead of them, fearing she could not keep her secret if she delayed another instant. Up the hill and across the wide grassy yard she led them, straight to where Mother Brace stood in the barn doorway.
"I've brought them," she said, and stopped, overwhelmed by this crowning moment.
"We want you to see our new house we've fixed up," Mother Brace explained, coming to the rescue. "Come in, all of you."
Considerably bewildered, Mrs. Jimson obeyed, shooing the children before her like a flock of chickens. It was not usual for her to be called upon for opinion or approval; and she made the most of it, exclaiming with admiration and delight as they made the rounds of the tiny bedrooms, and stood once more in the long, shining kitchen with its neatly blackened stove and its row of polished tin pans.
"It couldn't be no completer, no ways," she pronounced judgment. "Nor no prettier."
Then Gerry found her voice, and the words came tumbling out in joyful haste.
"It's all for you, Mrs. Jimson. You're to come here this very day, and this is to be your home. You are to sleep in the bedrooms, and cook in the kitchen, and—"
"But I don't understand," faltered Mrs. Jimson, her bewilderment deepening with every second. "Where did it come from? Whose is it? How—"