It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day—one
of the sun-lighted heights of human happiness.
After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling
stream, and Stanhope and Elsie became separated from
the rest, though not so innocently as on the former
occasion.
“See!” cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered
sapling, which she had often visited. “There
fluttered our flag of truce last year.”
Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly: “And
here I again break the truce, and renew the theme
we dropped at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have felt
that kiss in the depths of my heart every hour since;
and in that it led to my knowing and loving you, it
has made every day from that time one of thanksgiving.
If you could return my love, as I have dared to hope,
it would be a happiness beyond words. If I could
venture to take one more kiss, as a token that it
is returned, I could keep Thanksgiving forever.”
Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn.
Her blushing face was turned away toward the brawling
stream; but she saw not its foam, she heard not its
hoarse murmurs. A sweeter music was in her ears.
She seemed under a delicious spell, but soon became
conscious that a pair of dark eyes were looking down
eagerly, anxiously for her answer. Shyly raising
hers, that now were like dewy violets, she said, with
a little of her old witchery:
“I suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving,
to make things even.”
Stanhope needed no broader hint.
“I owe you a heavy grudge,” said Mr. Alford,
in the evening. “A year ago you robbed
me of my child, for little, kittenish Elsie became
a thoughtful woman from the day you were here; and
now you are going to take away the daughter of my
old age.”
“Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how
my father felt,” said Mrs. Alford, at the same
time wiping something from the corner of her eye.
“Bless me, are you here?” said the old
gentleman, wheeling round to his wife. “Mr.
Stanhope, I have nothing more to say.”
“I declare,” exulted George, “that
‘horrid man’ will devour Elsie yet.”
“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed big-voiced, big-hearted
James. “The idea of our little witch of
an Elsie being a minister’s wife!”
* * * *
* * *
It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt,
the fields bare and brown, with dead leaves whirling
across them; but a sweeter than June sunshine seems
filling the cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride,
is receiving her husband’s first kiss almost
on the moment that she with her lips so unexpectedly
kindled the sacred fire, three years before.
Picnicking in December would be a dreary experience
even if one could command all the appliances of comfort
which outdoor life permitted. This would be especially
true in the latitude of Boston and on the bleak hills
overlooking that city and its environing waters.
Dreary business indeed Ezekiel Watkins regarded it
as he shivered over the smoky camp-fire which he maintained
with difficulty. The sun was sinking into the
southwest so early in the day that he remarked irritably:
“Durned if it was worth while for it to rise
at all.”
