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He played the brave marching songs of Scotland and of the United States; he played the sweet old love songs and the gay dance tunes, and Laura was so happy that her throat ached.
When it was bedtime and she went upstairs with Carrie and Grace, she looked from the attic window at the lights of the town twinkling here and there, through the wind and the blowing snow. As she snuggled under the quilts she heard Pa and Ma coming up to their room at the head of the stairs. She heard Ma’s pleasant low voice and Pa’s deeper one answering it, and she was so glad to be at home for two nights and nearly two days that she could hardly go to sleep.
Even her sleep was deep and good, without fear of falling off a narrow sofa. Almost at once, it
seemed her eyes opened; she heard the stove lid rattle downstairs, and knew that she was at home.
“Good morning!” Carrie said from her bed, and Grace bounced up and cried, “Good morning, Laura!” “Good morning.” Ma smiled when Laura entered the kitchen, and Pa came in with the milk and said, “Good morning, Flutterbudget!” Laura had never noticed before that saying, “Good morning,” made the morning good. Anyway, she was learning something from that Mrs. Brewster, she thought.
Breakfast was so pleasant. Then briskly, and still talking, Laura and Carrie did the dishes, and went upstairs to make the beds. While they were tucking in a sheet, Laura said, “Carrie, do you ever think how lucky we are to have a home like this?”
Carrie looked around her, surprised. There was nothing to be seen but the two beds, the three boxes under the eaves where they kept their things, and the underside of the shingles overhead. There was also the stovepipe that came up through the floor and went out through the roof.
“It is snug,” Carrie said, while they spread the first quilt and folded and tucked in its corners. “I guess I never did think, exactly.”
“You wait till you go away,” Laura said. “Then you’ll think.”
“Do you dreadfully hate to teach school?” Carrie asked her, low.
“Yes, I do,” Laura almost whispered. “But Pa and Ma mustn’t know.”
They plumped up the pillows and set them in their places, and went to Laura’s bed. “Maybe you won’t have to, long,” Carrie consoled her. They unbuttoned the straw tick and thrust their arms deep into it, stirring the straw. “Maybe you’ll get married. Ma did.”
“I don’t want to,” Laura said. She patted the tick smooth and buttoned it. “There. Now the bottom quilt. I’d rather stay home than anything.”
“Always?” Carrie asked.
“Yes, always,” Laura said, and she meant it with her heart. She spread the sheet. “But I can’t, not all the time. I have to go on teaching school.”
They tucked in the quilts and plumped up Laura’s pillow. The beds were done. Carrie said she would do all the sweeping. “I always do, now,” she said, “and if you’re going to Mary Power’s, the sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back.”
“I only have to find out if I’m keeping up with my class,” Laura said. Downstairs, she set the wash-boiler on the stove and filled it with pails of water from the well. Then while it was heating, she went to see Mary Power.
She had quite forgotten that she had ever disliked the town. It was bright and brisk this morning. Sunlight glinted on the icy ruts of snow in the street and sparkled on the frosty edges of the board sidewalk. In the two blocks there were only two vacant lots on the west side of the street now, and some of the stores were painted, white or gray. Harthorne’s grocery was painted red. Everywhere there was the stir and bustle of morning. The storekeepers in thick coats and caps were scraping trodden bits of snow from the sidewalk before their stores, and talking and joking as they worked. Doors slammed; hens cackled, and horses whinnied in the stables.
Mr. Fuller, and then Mr. Bradley, lifted their caps and said good morning to Laura as she passed. Mr. Bradley said, “I hear you’re teaching Brewster school, Miss Ingalls.”
Laura felt very grown-up. “Yes,” she said, “I am in town only over Saturday.”
“Well, I wish you all success,” said Mr. Bradley.
“Thank you, Mr. Bradley,” said Laura.
In Mr. Power’s tailor shop, Mary’s father sat cross-legged on his table, sewing busily. Mary was helping her mother with the morning’s work in the back room.
“Well, look who’s here!” Mrs. Power exclaimed. “How’s the schoolteacher?”
“Very well, thank you,” Laura replied.
“Do you like teaching school?” Mary wanted to know.
“I’m getting along all right, I guess,” Laura said. “But I’d rather be home. I’ll be glad when the two months are over.”
“So will all of us,” Mary told her. “My, we do miss you at school.”
Laura was pleased. “Do you?” she said. “I miss you, too.”
“Nellie Oleson tried to get your seat,” Mary went on. “But Ida wouldn’t let her. Ida said she’s keeping that seat for you till you come back, and Mr. Owen said she can.
