"'Twould be heavenly!" sighed Mehitable. "And now it seems to me 'twas so at Cousin Eliza's great house at Trenton! Oh, Father, let us move to the city!"
"But what would become of the farm and the stock?" protested the Squire laughingly.
"Amos and Judd could care for them. Why not, Father?" urged Mehitable. Already, in imagination, she could see herself sweeping down narrow, winding city stairs into a warm firelit room, bright from the light of many sconces, the sheen of her satin ball gown reflecting their light. . . . She started.
"What, art dreaming again, Hitty?" smiled her father, pinching her round cheek.
"Supper!" announced Mistress Condit. And they, with the two farm men who had previously silently entered, drew up to partake of the hot soup and the Indian pudding, with healthy appetites.
"We will wait for the morrow to wash the dishes," said Mistress Condit when they had finished and Amos and Judd had vanished, "if you will promise to do them without grumbling, girls."
"Indeed, Mother," they both began and their mother nodded.
"And do let us roast apples and chestnuts, Mother," begged Charity, "while Father tells us about when he was a little lad in England."
"And warm some cider, too," continued Mehitable.
"All this for one evening!" protested Mistress Condit. "Nay, then, what about to-morrow night?"
"'Twill keep, to-morrow night will!" answered
