"Huldah Gregg, do you appreciate Cyrus?"
Huldah bridled angrily, but there was no time for a reply, for the woman
answered her own question, and hurried on wildly.
"No. Did I appreciate my husband? No. Does Sally Clark appreciate her
husband? No. And there don't none of us do it till he's gone--gone--
gone!"
As soon as possible Huldah went home. She was not a little disconcerted.
The "gone--gone--gone" rang unpleasantly in her ears, and before her
eyes rose a hateful vision of unappetizing fried eggs and boiled
potatoes. As to her not appreciating Cyrus--that was all nonsense; she
had always appreciated him, and that, too, far beyond his just deserts,
she told herself angrily.
There was no escaping Thanksgiving after that for either Huldah or
Cyrus. It looked from every eager eye, and dropped from every joyous
lip, until, of all the world Huldah and Cyrus came to regard themselves
as the most forlorn, and the most abused.
It was then that to Huldah came her great idea; she would cook for Cyrus
the best Thanksgiving dinner he had ever eaten. Just because he was
obstinate was no reason why he should starve, she told herself; and very
gayly she set about carrying out her plans. First the oil stove, with
the help of a jobman, was removed to the unfinished room over the
kitchen, for the chief charm of the dinner was to be its secret
preparation.
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