I’d like to see his face when he steps in. I suppose he’ll think one of the Jenner girls across the street has cooked his dinner.”
Prissy soon had the table set, and she was just peppering the turnips when a gruff voice behind her said:
“Well, well, what does this mean?”
Prissy whirled around as if she had been shot, and there stood Uncle Richard in the woodshed door!
Poor Prissy! She could not have looked or felt more guilty if Uncle Richard had caught her robbing his desk. She did not drop the turnips for a wonder; but she was too confused to set them down, so she stood there holding them, her face crimson, her heart thumping, and a horrible choking in her throat.
“I — I — came up to cook your dinner for you, Uncle Richard,” she stammered. “I heard you say — in the store — that Mrs. Janeway had gone home and that you had nobody to cook your New Year’s dinner for you. So I thought I’d come and do it, but I meant to slip away before you came home.”
Poor Prissy felt that she would never get to the end of her explanation. Would Uncle Richard be angry? Would he order her from the house?
“It was very kind of you,” said Uncle Richard drily. “It’s a wonder your father let you come.”
“Father was not home, but I am sure he would not have prevented me if he had been. Father has no hard feelings against you, Uncle Richard.”
“Humph!” said Uncle Richard. “Well, since you’ve cooked the dinner you must stop and help me eat it. It smells good, I must say. Mrs. Janeway always burns pork when she roasts it. Sit down, Prissy. I’m hungry.”
They sat down. Prissy felt quite giddy and breathless, and could hardly eat for excitement; but Uncle Richard had evidently brought home a good appetite from Navarre, and he did full justice to his New Year’s dinner. He talked to Prissy too, quite kindly and politely, and when the meal was over he said slowly:
“I’m much obliged to you, Prissy, and I don’t mind owning to you that I’m sorry for my share in the quarrel, and have wanted for a long time to be friends with your father again, but I was too ashamed and proud to make the first advance. You can tell him so for me, if you like. And if he’s willing to let bygones be bygones, tell him I’d like him to come up here with you tonight when he gets home and spend the evening with me.”
“Oh, he will come, I know!” cried Prissy joyfully. “He has felt so badly about not being friendly with you, Uncle Richard. I’m as glad as can be.”
Prissy ran impulsively around the table and kissed Uncle Richard. He looked up at his tall, girlish niece with a smile of pleasure.
“You’re a good girl, Prissy, and a kindhearted one too, or you’d never have come up here to cook a dinner for a crabbed old uncle who deserved to eat cold dinners for his stubbornness. It made me cross today when folks wished me a happy New Year. It seemed like mockery when I hadn’t a soul belonging to me to make it happy. But it has brought me happiness already, and I believe it will be a happy year all the way through.”
“Indeed it will!” laughed Prissy. “I’m so happy now I could sing. I believe it was an inspiration — my idea of coming up here to cook your dinner for you.”
“You must promise to come and cook my New Year’s dinner for me every New Year we live near enough together,” said Uncle Richard.
And Prissy promised.
Bertie’s New Year
He stood on the sagging doorstep and looked out on the snowy world. His hands were clasped behind him, and his thin face wore a thoughtful, puzzled look. The door behind him opened jerkingly, and a scowling woman came out with a pan of dishwater in her hand.
“Ain’t you gone yet, Bert?” she said sharply. “What in the world are you hanging round for?”
“It’s early yet,” said Bertie cheerfully. “I thought maybe George Fraser’d be along and I’d get a lift as far as the store.”
“Well, I never saw such laziness! No wonder old Sampson won’t keep you longer than the holidays if you’re no smarter than that. Goodness, if I don’t settle that boy!” — as the sound of fretful crying came from the kitchen behind her.
“What is wrong with William John?” asked Bertie.
“Why, he wants to go out coasting with those Robinson boys, but he can’t. He hasn’t got any mittens and he would catch his death of cold again.”
Her voice seemed to imply that William John had died of cold several times already.
Bertie looked soberly down at his old, well-darned mittens. It was very cold, and he would have a great many errands to run. He shivered, and looked up at his aunt’s hard face as she stood wiping her dishpan with a grim frown which boded no good to the discontented William John. Then he suddenly pulled off his mittens and held them out.
“Here — he can have mine. I’ll get on without them well enough.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Ross, but less unkindly. “The fingers would freeze off you. Don’t be a goose.”
“It’s all right,” persisted Bertie. “I don’t need them — much. And William John doesn’t hardly ever get out.”
He thrust them into her hand and ran quickly down the street, as though he feared that the keen air might make him change his mind in spite of himself. He had to stop a great many times that day to breathe on his purple hands. Still, he did not regret having lent his mittens to William John — poor, pale, sickly little William John, who had so few pleasures.
It was sunset when Bertie laid an armful of parcels down on the steps of Doctor Forbes’s handsome house. His back was turned towards the big bay window at one side, and he was busy trying to warm his hands, so he did not see the two small faces looking at him through the frosty panes.
“Just look at that poor little boy, Amy,” said the taller of the two. “He is almost frozen, I believe. Why doesn’t Caroline hurry and open the door?”
“There she goes now,” said Amy. “Edie, couldn’t we coax her to let him come in and get warm? He looks so cold.” And she drew her sister out into the hall, where the housekeeper was taking Bertie’s parcels.
“Caroline,” whispered Edith timidly, “please tell that poor little fellow to come in and get warm — he looks very cold.”
“He’s used to the cold, I warrant you,” said the housekeeper rather impatiently. “It won’t hurt him.”
“But it is Christmas week,” said Edith gravely, “and you know, Caroline, when Mamma was here she used to say that we ought to be particularly thoughtful of others who were not so happy or well-off as we were at this time.”
Perhaps Edith’s reference to her mother softened Caroline, for she turned to Bertie and said cordially enough, “Come in, and warm yourself before you go. It’s a cold day.”
Bertie
