“’Tis the big hearrt of him that leads his judgment asthray,” she said, exulting none the less, as she spoke, over the prospect of handling all those rich materials and for once having the chance to display her skilled cookery.  “I said as much as I dared, lest I hurrt his pride, but—­’Tis but wanct a year, Missus Kelcey,’ says he, an’ I said no more.”

The thrifty Scotswoman shook her head.  “The mon kens nae mair aboot the cost o’ things than a cheild,” said she.  “But ’twould be, as ye say, a peety to mak’ him feel we dinna appreciate his thocht o’ us.”

So they had done their best for him, and the result was a wonderful thing.  To his supplies they had surreptitiously added small delicacies of their own.  Mrs. Kelcey contributed a dish of fat pickles, luscious to the eye and cooling to the palate.  Mrs. Murdison brought a jar of marmalade of her own making—­a rare delicacy; though the oranges were purchased of an Italian vender who had sold out an over-ripe stock at a pittance.  Mrs. Lukens supplied a plate of fat doughnuts, and Mrs. Burke sent over a big platter of molasses candy.  Thus the people of the neighbourhood had come to feel the affair one to which not only had they been bidden, but in which they were all in a way entertainers.

The boys of the district, also, had their share in the fun.  Though not invited to the dinner proper, they had been given a hint that if they dropped in that evening after their fathers and mothers had departed there might be something left—­and what boys would not rather “drop in” after that fashion, by the back door, than go decorously in at the front one?  So they had been eager to furnish decorations for the party, according to Brown’s suggestion, by going in a body to the woods three miles away and bringing back a lavish supply of ground-pine.  They had spent two happy evenings helping Brown make this material into ropes, while he told them stories, and there was not a boy of them all who would not cheerfully have lent his shoulders to the support of the dinner-table throughout the coming meal, if it had suddenly been reported that Tim Lukens’s sawhorses were untrustworthy.

“Now, Misther Brown, I’ll be goin’ home to see to the twins and get me man to dhress himsilf, an’ thin I’ll be back.  Have no fear—­av’rythin’s doin’ foine, an’ the turrkey’s an ilegant brown jist beginnin’ to show.  If I’m not back in tin minutes ye moight baste him wanct, but have no other care.”

“I’ll be delighted to baste him, thank you,” Brown responded.  “And I have no cares at all, with you in charge.  I only hope you won’t be too tired to enjoy the dinner.  You’ve been busy every minute since dawn.”

“Shure, ’tis the labour of love makes the worrk aisy,” she responded, and then, attacked by a sudden and most unusual wave of shyness, disappeared out of the door.