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Chapter 7

           

           Joemadethefireandsweptthehearth,andthenwewenttothedoortolistenforthechaise-cart.Itwasadrycoldnight,andthewindblewkeenly,andthefrostwaswhiteandhard.Amanwoulddieto-nightoflyingoutonthemarshes,Ithought.AndthenIlookedatthestars,andconsideredhowawfulifwouldbeforamantoturnhisfaceuptothemashefrozetodeath,andseenohelporpityinalltheglitteringmultitude.

           "Herecomesthemare,"saidJoe,"ringinglikeapealofbells!"

           Thesoundofherironshoesuponthehardroadwasquitemusical,asshecamealongatamuchbriskertrotthanusual.Wegotachairout,readyforMrs.Joe’salighting,andstirredupthefirethattheymightseeabrightwindow,andtookafinalsurveyofthekitchenthatnothingmightbeoutofitsplace.Whenwehadcompletedthesepreparations,theydroveup,wrappedtotheeyes.Mrs.Joewassoonlanded,andUnclePumblechookwassoondowntoo,coveringthemarewithacloth,andweweresoonallinthekitchen,carryingsomuchcoldairinwithusthatitseemedtodrivealltheheatoutofthefire.

           "Now,"saidMrs.Joe,unwrappingherselfwithhasteandexcitement,andthrowingherbonnetbackonhershoulderswhereithungbythestrings,"ifthisboyain’tgratefulthisnight,heneverwillbe!"

           Ilookedasgratefulasanyboypossiblycould,whowaswhollyuninformedwhyheoughttoassumethatexpression.

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