I worked hard the morning before they were to arrive, sweeping, dusting, polishing silver, and especially brightening the large, brass andirons in father's library.

I usually scoured with rotten stone and oil, but on this great occasion, adopting a receipt which I had happened to see in a newspaper, I tried vinegar and powdered pumice-stone.

The result at first was fine.
I had barely time after all this to place flowers about the house and dress, and then to drive in our old carryall, with our older horse, to the station at Norwich, just across the Connecticut River, to meet the distinguished pair and escort them to our house.

As I heard the train approaching, and the shrill whistle, I got nervous, and my hands trembled.

How would they know me?
And what had I better say?
My aged and spavined horse was called by father "Rosinante" for Don Quixote's bony steed, also "Blind Guide" and "Heathen Philosopher." He looked it--and my shabby carryall! But the train was snorting for a stop, and the two guests soon came easily to my vehicle, and Mr.Fields seemed to know me.