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“Here, Solon,” she said, “it’s Christmas. I brought you these.”

Solon looked at her and at them, in slow surprise. He put out both hands and took them awkwardly.

“Well!” he said, “Well!”

Susan was smiling at him. It seemed to her at that moment that the world was a very rich place, because you may take all you want and give all you choose, while nobody is the wiser.

“Well,” remarked Solon again, “I guess I’ll put ’em into water.” He laid them down on a chair. “Susan, do you remember that time I walked over to Pine Hill to pick you some mayflowers, when you was gittin’ over the lung fever?”

She nodded.

“Susan,” said he desperately, “what if I should ask you to forgit old scores an’ begin all over?”

“I ain’t laid up anything,” answered Susan, looking him full in the face with her brilliant smile.

“There’s suthin’ I’ve wanted to tell ye, this two year. I never s’posed you knew, but that night I kissed your sister in the entry an’ asked her, I thought ‘t was you.”

“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. She swept open the feathers. They were white and wonderful.

“It was never used except by one very beautiful woman,” said the schoolmaster, without looking at her. “She was a good deal older than I; but somehow she seemed to belong to me. She died, and I thought I should like to have you keep this.”

Susan was waving it back and forth before her face, stirring the air to fragrance. Her eyes were full of dreams. “My! ain’t it rich!” she murmured. “The Queen o’ Sheba never had no better. An’ Solon’s comin’ over to breakfast.”