travel. By the time they reached their own door Fleda's
spirits were at par again.

"I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she
said, as she jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both
of us ready for supper, don't you think so?"

She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings, and then came
down to the kitchen, where, standing on the broad hearth and
warming herself at the blaze, with all the old associations of
comfort settling upon her heart, it occurred to her that
foundations so established could not be shaken. The blazing
fire seemed to welcome her home, and bid her dismiss fear; the
kettle singing on its accustomed hook, looked as if quietly
ridiculing the idea that they could be parted company; her
grandfather was in his cushioned chair at the corner of the
hearth, reading the newspaper, as she had seen him a thousand
times; just in the same position, with that collected air of
grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled back
in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an
intent but most un-careful face. A face it was that always had
a rare union of fineness and placidness. The table stood
spread in the usual place, warmth and comfort filled every
corner of the room, and Fleda began to feel as if she had been
in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from
which she was very glad she had awoke.

"What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she.
"Muffins! — O let me bake them, will you? I'll bake them."