"That's the sleigh-bells! It's our sleigh, I know it is. Shall I begin to make the waffles?"
"Don't you tetch 'em. Pen, get out that chiny thing your mother got to put the maple-sirup in."
"Oh, I forgot that."
She brought it out like a flash now; and it must have been the only thing she had forgotten when she set the table, for she had walked anxiously around it twenty times, at least, since she put the last plate in its place.
Faint and far, from away down the road, beyond the turn, the winter wind brought up the merry jingle of bells. By the time Pen had brought the china pitcher for the sirup from its shelf in the closet, and once more darted to the window, she could see her father's black team—blacker than ever against the snow—trotting towards the house magnificently.
"Don't I wish I'd gone with 'em! But it was Corry's turn. I guess Susie isn't used to waffles, but she can't help liking 'em."
That was quite possible, but it might also be of some importance whether Penelope or aunt Judith should have the care of the waffle-irons.
Jingle-jangle-jingle, louder and louder, came the merry bells, till they stopped at the great gate, and a tall boy sprang out of the sleigh to open it. The front-door of the house swung open quicker than did the gate, and Pen was on the stoop, shouting anxiously,—
"Did they come, Corry? Did you get 'em?"
A deep voice from the sleigh responded with a chuckle,—