After her Uncle Richard had driven away, Prissy walked thoughtfully home. She had planned to spend a nice, lazy holiday with the new book her father had given her at Christmas and a box of candy. She did not even mean to cook a dinner, for her father had had to go to town that morning to meet a friend and would be gone the whole day. There was nobody else to cook dinner for. Prissy’s mother had died when Prissy was a baby. She was her father’s housekeeper, and they had jolly times together.
But as she walked home, she could not help thinking about Uncle Richard. He would certainly have cold New Year cheer, enough to chill the whole coming year. She felt sorry for him, picturing him returning from Navarre, cold and hungry, to find a fireless house and an uncooked dinner in the pantry.
Suddenly an idea popped into Prissy’s head. Dared she? Oh, she never could! But he would never know — there would be plenty of time — she would!
Prissy hurried home, put her matches away, took a regretful peep at her unopened book, then locked the door and started up the road to Uncle Richard’s house half a mile away. She meant to go and cook Uncle Richard’s dinner for him, get it all beautifully ready, then slip away before he came home. He would never suspect her of it. Prissy would not have him suspect for the world; she thought he would be more likely to throw a dinner of her cooking out of doors than to eat it.
Eight years before this, when Prissy had been nine years old, Richard and Irving Baker had quarrelled over the division of a piece of property. The fault had been mainly on Richard’s side, and that very fact made him all the more unrelenting and stubborn. He had never spoken to his brother since, and he declared he never would. Prissy and her father felt very badly over it, but Uncle Richard did not seem to feel badly at all. To all appearance he had completely forgotten that there were such people in the world as his brother Irving and his niece Prissy.
Prissy had no trouble in breaking into Uncle Richard’s house, for the woodshed door was unfastened. She tripped into the hostile kitchen with rosy cheeks and mischief sparkling in her eyes. This was an adventure — this was fun! She would tell her father all about it when he came home at night and what a laugh they would have!
There was still a good fire in the stove, and in the pantry Prissy found the dinner in its raw state — a fine roast of fresh pork, potatoes, cabbage, turnips and the ingredients of a raisin pudding, for Richard Baker was fond of raisin puddings, and could make them as well as Mrs. Janeway could, if that was anything to boast of.
In a short time the kitchen was full of bubbling and hissings and appetizing odours. Prissy enjoyed herself hugely, and the raisin pudding, which she rather doubtfully mixed up, behaved itself beautifully.
“Uncle Richard said he’d be home by one,” said Prissy to herself, as the clock struck twelve, “so I’ll set the table now, dish up the dinner, and leave it where it will keep warm until he gets here. Then I’ll slip away home. I’d like to see his face when he steps in. I suppose he’ll think one of the Jenner girls across the street has cooked his dinner.”
Prissy soon had the table set, and she was just peppering the turnips when a gruff voice behind her said:
“Well, well, what does this mean?”
Prissy whirled around as if she had been shot, and there stood Uncle Richard in the woodshed door!
Poor Prissy! She could not have looked or felt more guilty if Uncle Richard had caught her robbing his desk. She did not drop the turnips for a wonder; but she was too confused to set them down, so she stood there holding them, her face crimson, her heart thumping, and a horrible choking in her throat.
“I — I — came up to cook your dinner for you, Uncle Richard,” she stammered. “I heard you say — in the store — that Mrs. Janeway had gone home and that you had nobody to cook your New Year’s dinner for you. So I thought I’d come and do it, but I meant to slip away before you came home.”
Poor Prissy felt that she would never get to the end of her explanation. Would Uncle Richard be angry? Would he order her from the house?
“It was very kind of you,” said Uncle Richard drily. “It’s a wonder your father let you come.”
“Father was not home, but I am sure he would not have prevented me if he had been. Father has no hard feelings against you, Uncle Richard.”
“Humph!” said Uncle Richard. “Well, since you’ve cooked the dinner you must stop and help me eat it. It smells good, I must say. Mrs. Janeway always burns pork when she roasts it. Sit down, Prissy. I’m hungry.”
They sat down. Prissy felt quite giddy and breathless, and could hardly eat for excitement; but Uncle Richard had evidently brought home a good appetite from Navarre, and he did full justice to his New Year’s dinner. He talked to Prissy too, quite kindly and politely, and when the meal was over he said slowly:
“I’m much obliged to you, Prissy, and I don’t mind owning to you that I’m sorry for my share in the quarrel, and have wanted for a long time to be friends with your father again, but I was too ashamed and proud to make the first advance. You can tell him so for me, if you like. And if he’s willing to let bygones be bygones, tell him I’d like him to come up here with you tonight when he gets home and spend the evening with me.”
“Oh, he will come, I know!” cried Prissy joyfully. “He has felt so badly about not being friendly with you, Uncle Richard. I’m as glad as can be.”
Prissy ran impulsively around the table and kissed Uncle Richard. He looked up at his tall, girlish niece with a smile of pleasure.
“You’re a good girl, Prissy, and a kindhearted one too, or you’d never have come up here to cook a dinner for a crabbed old uncle who deserved to eat cold dinners for his stubbornness. It made me cross today when folks wished me a happy New Year. It seemed like mockery when I hadn’t a soul belonging to me to make it happy. But it has brought me happiness already, and I believe it will be a happy year all the way through.”
“Indeed it will!” laughed Prissy. “I’m so happy now I could sing. I believe it was an inspiration — my idea of coming up here to cook your dinner for you.”
“You must promise to come and cook my New Year’s dinner for me every New Year we live near enough together,” said Uncle Richard.
And Prissy promised.
Bertie’s New Year
He stood on the sagging doorstep and looked out on the snowy world. His hands were clasped behind him, and his thin face wore a thoughtful, puzzled look. The door behind him opened jerkingly, and a scowling woman came out with a pan of dishwater in her hand.
“Ain’t you gone yet, Bert?” she said sharply. “What in the world are you hanging round for?”
“It’s early yet,” said Bertie cheerfully. “I thought maybe George Fraser’d be along and I’d get a lift as far as the store.”
“Well, I never saw such laziness! No wonder old Sampson won’t keep you longer than the holidays if you’re no smarter than that. Goodness, if I don’t settle that boy!” — as the sound of fretful crying came from the kitchen behind her.
“What is wrong with William John?” asked Bertie.
“Why, he wants to go out coasting with those Robinson boys, but he can’t. He hasn’t got any mittens and he would catch his death of cold again.”
Her voice seemed to imply that William John had died of cold several times already.
Bertie looked soberly down at his old, well-darned mittens.