in'!" he
exclaimed. "Zoeth, I've got a funny feelin', too, but I know what's the
reason for it--the reason is turkey and plum puddin' and mince pie and
the land knows what. When a couple of old hulks like you and me h'ist
in a cargo of that kind it's no wonder we have feelin's. Good night,
shipmate."

CHAPTER XIII

The day after New Year's Mary went back to Boston and to school. The
long winter term--the term which Madeline Talbott, whose father was a
judge, called "the extreme penalty"--began. Boston's famous east winds,
so welcome in summer and so raw and penetrating in winter, brought their
usual allowance of snow and sleet, and the walks from Pinckney Street
to the school and back were not always pleasant. Mrs. Wyeth had a slight
attack of tonsillitis and Miss Pease a bronchial cold, but they united
in declaring these afflictions due entirely to their own imprudence
and not in the least to the climate, which, being like themselves,
thoroughly Bostonian, was expected to maintain a proper degree of chill.

Mary, fortunately, escaped colds and illness. The walks in all sorts of
weather did her good and her rosy cheeks and clear eyes were competent
witnesses to her state of health. She was getting on well with her
studies, and the Misses Cabot, not too easy to please, were apparently
pleased with her. At home--for she had come to consider Mrs. Wyeth's
comfortable house a home, although not of course to be compared with the
real home at South Harniss--at Mrs. Wyeth's she was more of a favorite
than ever, not only with the mistress of the house, but with Miss Pease,
who was considered eccentric and whose liking was reported hard to win.
The two ladies had many talks concerning the girl.

"She is remarkable," declared Miss Pease on one occasion. "Considering
her lack of early advantages, I consider her ease of manner and
self-possession remarkable. She is a prodigy."

Mrs. Wyeth sniffed. She enjoyed hearing Mary praised, but she objected
to her friend's choice of words.

"For mercy sake, Letitia," she said, "don't call her that. The word
'prodigy' always reminds me of the Crummles infant, the one with the
green parasol and the white--er--lingerie, in 'Nicholas Nickleby.'"

Miss Pease smiled with the superiority of the corrected who is about to
correct.

"I don't see why that should bring the individual you mention to mind,"
she said. "If I remember correctly--and I was brought up on Dickens--she
was a 'ph