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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
61
“I
keep
that
tea
for
ministers'
folks,”
gayly
responded
Mrs.
Todd.
“Come
right
along
in,
Susan
Fosdick.
I
declare
if
you
ain't
the
same
old
sixpence!”
As
they
came
up
the
walk
together,
laughing
like
girls,
I
fled,
full
of
cares,
to
the
kitchen,
to
brighten
the
fire
and
be
sure
that
the
lobster,
sole
dependence
of
a
late
supper,
was
well
out
of
reach
of
the
cat.
There
proved
to
be
fine
reserves
of
wild
raspberries
and
bread
and
butter,
so
that
I
regained
my
composure,
and
waited
impatiently
for
my
own
share
of
this
illustrious
visit
to
begin.
There
was
an
instant
sense
of
high
festivity
in
the
evening
air
from
the
moment
when
our
guest
had
so
frankly
demanded
the
Oolong
tea.
The
great
moment
arrived.
I
was
formally
presented
at
the
stair-foot,
and
the
two
friends
passed
on
to
the
kitchen,
where
I
soon
heard
a
hospitable
clink
of
crockery
and
the
brisk
stirring
of
a
tea-cup.
I
sat
in
my
high-backed
rocking-chair
by
the
window
in
the
front
room
with
an
unreasonable
feeling
of
being
left
out,
like
the
child
who
stood
at
the
gate
in
Hans
Andersen's
story.
Mrs.
Fosdick
did
not
look,
at
first
sight,
like
a
person
of
great
social
gifts.
She
was
a
serious-looking
little
bit
of
an
old
woman,
with
a
birdlike
nod
of
the
head.
I
had
often
been
told
that
she
was
the
“best
hand
in
the
world
to
make
a
visit,”--as
if
to
visit
were
the
highest
of
vocations;
that
everybody
wished
for
her,
while
few
could
get
her;
and
I
saw
that
Mrs.
Todd
felt
a
comfortable
sense
of
distinction
in
being
favored
with
the
company
of
this
eminent
person
who
“knew
just
how.”
It
was
certainly
true
that
Mrs.
Fosdick
gave
both
her
hostess
and
me
a
warm
feeling
of
enjoyment
and
expectation,
as
if
she
had
the
power
of
social
suggestion
to
all
neighboring
minds.
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