“Whose doing is this?” asked father, looking round the table.

“It is Fanny’s,” I answered, rattling the cups.  “All the coffee to be poured out at once, don’t agitate me.”

Fanny, bearing buckwheat cakes, looked proud and modest, as people do who appreciate their own virtues.

“Why, Fanny,” said the father, “you have done wonders; you are more original than Cassy or Verry.”

Her green eyes glowed; her aspect was so feline that I expected her hair to rise.

“Father’s praise pleases you more than ours,” Verry said.

“You never gave me any,” she answered, marching out.

Father looked up at Verry, annoyed, but said nothing.  We paid no attention to Fanny’s call afterward; but she continued her labors, which proved acceptable to him.  Temperance told me, when she was with us for a week, that his overcoats, hats, umbrellas, and whips never had such care as Fanny gave them.  He omitted from this time to ask us if we knew where his belongings were, but went to Fanny; and I noticed that he required much attendance.

Temperance, who had arrived in the thick of the company, as she termed it, was sorry to go back to Abram.  He was a good man, she said; but it was a dreadful thing for a woman to lose her liberty, especially when liberty brought so much idle time.  “Why, girls, I have quilted and darned up every rag in the house.  He will do half the housework himself; he is an everlasting Betty.”  She was cheerful, however, and helped Hepsey, as well as the rest of us.

The guests did not encroach on my time, but it was a relief to have them gone and the house our own once more.

I went to Milford again, almost daily, to feast my eyes on the bleak, flat, gray landscape.  The desolation of winter sustains our frail hopes.  Nature is kindest then; she does not taunt us with fruition.  It is the luxury of summer which tantalizes—­her long, brilliant, blossoming days, her dewy, radiant nights.

Entering the house one March evening, when it was unusually still, I had reached the front hall, when masculine tones struck my ears.  I opened the parlor door softly, and saw Ben Somers in an easy-chair, basking before a glowing fire, his luminous face set toward Veronica, who was near him, holding a small screen between her and the fire.  “She is always ready,” I thought, contemplating her as I would a picture.  Her ruby-colored merino dress absorbed the light; she was a mass of deep red, except her face and hair, above which her silver crescent comb shone.  Her slender feet were tapping the rug.  She wore boots the color of her dress; Ben was looking at them.  Mother was there, and in the background Aunt Merce and Fanny figured.  I pushed the door wide; as the stream of cold air reached them, they looked toward it, and cried—­“Cassandra!” Ben started up with extended hands.

“I went as far as Cape Horn only, but I bought you the idol and lots of things I promised from a passing ship.  I have been home a week, and I am here.  Are you glad?  Can I stay?”