"They're comin', comin', comin'," shouted Winnie, from the door-steps,
where, in the exuberance of his spirits, he was trying very hard to
stand on his head, and making a most remarkable failure—"they're
comin' lickitycut, and I'm five years old, 'n' I've got on my best
jacket, 'n' they're comin' slam bang!"

"Coming, coming, coming!" echoed Gypsy, about as wild as Winnie himself,
and flying past him down to the gate, leaving Tom to follow in Tom's own
dignified way.

Such a kissing, and laughing, and talking, and delightful confusion as
there was then! Such a shouldering of bags and valises and shawls, such
hurrying of mother in out of the cold; such a pulling of father's
whiskers, such peeping into mysterious bundles, and pulling off of
wrappers, and hurrying Patty with the tea-things; and questions and
answers, and everybody talking at once—one might have supposed the
travelers had been gone a month instead of a week.

"My kitty had a fit," observed Winnie, the first pause he could find.

"And there are some letters for father," from Tom.

"Patty has a new beau," interrupted Gypsy.

"It was an awfully fit," put in Winnie, undiscouraged; "she rolled under
the stove, 'n' tell _you_ she squealed, and——"

"How is uncle?" asked Tom, and it was the first time any one had thought
to ask.