"He's too old to say he is sorry," Di said to herself, as she turned dejectedly away; "a great deal too old--and lonely--and dreary!"
And it was on that very evening that she made her little petition to her mother, and that her father declared that Di was sure to bag her game.
Old Mr. Crosby, meanwhile, was too well-used to his empty house and to his boarded-in fireplace to mind them very much, too unaccustomed to muslin curtains to miss them. Yet he had not been on very good terms with himself for the past few weeks, and that was something which he did mind particularly.
The result of his long cogitation in front of the grandfather picture had been highly uncomplimentary to the artist. He pronounced the homespun subject unworthy of artistic treatment, and he told himself that it merited just that order of criticism which it had received at the hands of the young person with the rather pretty turn of countenance, who had regarded it with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless, he did not forget the picture,--nor yet the young person!
It was the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, and there was a light fall of snow outside. He remembered that in old times there used always to be a lot of snow on Thanksgiving day. Things were very different in old times. He wondered what would have been thought of a man fifty years ago,--or seventeen years ago, for the matter of that,--who was giving his servants a holiday and dining at the club. As if those foreign servants had any concern in the Yankee festival! But then, what concern had he, Horatio Crosby, in it nowadays? What had he to be thankful for? Whom had he to be thankful with? He was very lucky to have a club to go to! He might as well go now, though it was still two or three hours to dinner time. He would ring for his overcoat and snow-shoes.
His hand was on the bell-rope--for Mr. Horatio Crosby was old-fashioned, and had never yet admitted an electric button to his domain.
At that moment the door opened softly--what was Burns thinking of, not to knock?--and there stood, not Burns, not Nora, but a slender apparition in petticoats, with a dash of snow on hat and jacket, and a dash of daring in a pair of very bright eyes.
"Good afternoon, Grandfather," was the apparition's cheerful greeting, and involuntarily the old gentleman found himself replying with a "Good afternoon" of his own.