“Oh, Stephen,” says I,—­and my heart jumped in my throat, but I just swallowed it down, and thanked Heaven that the evening was so dark,—­“is that you?”

“Yes,” says he, stepping forward, and putting out his hands, and making as if he would kiss me.  Just for a minute I hung back, then I went and gave him my hand in a careless way.

“Yes,” says he; “and I can’t say that you seem so very glad to see me.”

“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I am glad.  Did you drive over?”

“Well,” says he, “maybe you are; but I should call it a mighty cool reception, after almost a year’s absence.  However, I suppose it’s the best manners not to show any cordiality; you’ve had a chance to learn more politeness down at Salem than we have up here in the country.”

I was a little struck up by Stephen’s running on so,—­he was generally so quiet, and said so little, and then in such short sentences.  But in a minute I reckoned he thought I was nervous, and was trying to put me at my ease,—­and he knew of old that the best way to do that was to rouse my temper.

“I ha’n’t seen anybody at Salem better-mannered ’n mother and Lurindy,” said I.

“Come home for Thanksgiving?” asked Stephen, hanging up his coat.

I kept still a minute, for I couldn’t for the life of me see what I had to give thanks for.  Then it came over me what a cheery, comfortable home this was, and how Stephen would always be my kind, warm-hearted friend, and how thankful I ought to be that my life had been spared, and that I was useful, that I’d made such good friends as I had down to Salem, and that I wasn’t soured against all mankind on account of my misfortune.

“Yes, Stephen,” says I, “I’ve come home for Thanksgiving; and I have a great deal to give thanks for.”

“So have I,” said he.

“Stephen,” says I, “I don’t exactly know, but I shouldn’t wonder if I’d had a change of heart.”

“Don’t know of anybody that needed it less,” says Stephen, warming his hands.  “However, if it makes you any more comfortable, I sha’n’t object; except the part of it that belongs to me,—­I sha’n’t have that changed.”

The fire’d begun to brighten now, and the room was red and pleasant-looking; still I knew he couldn’t see me plainly, and I waited a minute, and lingered round, pretending I was doing something, which I wasn’t; I hated to break the old way of things; and then I took the tongs and blew a coal and lighted the dip and held it up, as if I was looking for something.  Pretty soon I found it; it was a skein of linen thread I was going to wind for Lurindy.  Then I got the swifts and came and sat down in front of the candle.

“There,” says I, “the swifts is broken.  What shall I do?”

“I’ll hold the thread, if that’s your trouble,” says Stephen, and came and sat opposite to me while I wound.

I wondered whether he was looking at me, but I didn’t durst look up,—­and then I couldn’t, if my life had depended upon it.  At last we came to the end; then I managed to get a glance edgeways.  He hadn’t been looking at all, I don’t believe, till that very moment, when he raised his eyes.