"
"Yes, I knew that well enough I was in the buttery and heard it all.
There, le's not talk about it."
Solon came a step nearer.
"But will you, Susan?" he persisted. "Will you? I know Jenny'd like
it."
"I guess she would, too," said Susan. "There! we don't need to talk no
further! You come over to breakfast, won't you? I'm goin' to fry
chicken. It's Christmas mornin'." She nodded at him and went out,
walking perhaps more proudly than usual down the shining path. Solon,
regardless of his cooling kitchen, stood at the door and watched her.
Solon never said very much, but he felt as if life were beginning all
over again, just as he had wished to make it at the very start. He
forgot his gray hair and furrowed face, just as he forgot the cold and
snow. It was the spring of the year.
When Miss Susan entered her kitchen, the schoolmaster had come down and
was putting a stick of wood into the stove.
"Merry Christmas!" he called, "and here's something for you."
A long white package lay on the table at the end where her plate was
always set. She opened it with delicate touches, it seemed so precious.
"My sake!" said she. "It's a fan!" She lifted it out, and the fragrance
of an Eastern wood filled all the room.
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