"It is home, Ben," said his wife, bringing out clean tin cups from the pantry, and putting them to warm beside the kettle on the hearth.
"Yes, with you in it, Mary," he said with the smile that had won him his true-love eighteen years before.
"Come in, Chi," he called towards the shed, whence came sounds as if some one were dancing a double-shuffle in snow-boots.
"'Fraid I'll thaw 'n' make a puddle on the hearth, Mis' Blossom. I'm as stiff as an icicle: guess I'll take my tea perpendic'lar; I ain't fit to sit down."
"Sit down, sit down, Chi," said Mrs. Blossom. "You'll enjoy the tea more; and give yourself a thorough heating before you go to bed. I've put the soapstone in it," she added.
"Well, you beat all, Mis Blossom; just as if you didn't find enough to do for yourself, you go to work n make work." He broke off suddenly, "George Washin'ton!" he exclaimed, "most forgot to give you this letter that come on to-night's mail."
He handed Mrs. Blossom the letter, which, with some difficulty, owing to his stiffened fingers, he extracted from the depths of the tail-pocket of his old overcoat. Then he helped himself to a brimming cup of the tea, and apparently swallowed its contents without once taking breath.
"Why, it's from Doctor Heath!" exclaimed Mrs. Blossom, recognizing the handwriting. "Is it a valentine, I wonder?" she said, feigning to laugh, for her heart sank within her, fearing it might be the bill,-and yet, and yet,
