III.
There was an imperative knock at the side door of the Hender
farmhouse, just after dark. The young school-mistress had come home
late, because she had stopped all the way along to give people the
news of her afternoon's experience. Marilla was not coy and speechless
any longer, but sat by the kitchen stove telling her eager grandmother
everything she could remember or could imagine.
"Who's that knocking at the door?" interrupted Mrs. Hender. "No, I'll
go myself; I'm nearest."
The man outside was cold and foot-weary. He was not used to spending a
whole day unrecognized, and, after being first amused, and even
enjoying a sense of freedom at escaping his just dues of consideration
and respect, he had begun to feel as if he were old and forgotten, and
was hardly sure of a friend in the world.
Old Mrs. Hender came to the door, with her eyes shining with delight,
in great haste to dismiss whoever had knocked, so that she might hear
the rest of Marilla's story. She opened the door wide to whoever might
have come on some country errand, and looked the tired and
faint-hearted Mr. Laneway full in the face.
"Dear heart, come in!" she exclaimed, reaching out and taking him by
the shoulder, as he stood humbly on a lower step. "Come right in, Joe.
Why, I should know you anywhere! Why, Joe Laneway, _you same boy_!"
In they went to the warm, bright, country kitchen. The delight and
kindness of an old friend's welcome and her instant sympathy seemed
the loveliest thing in the world.
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