Cut glass, dainty china and silver gleamed beneath them amidst the ears
of wheat that stood in clusters for sole and appropriate ornamentation.
They merited the place of honor, for wheat had brought prosperity to
every man at Silverdale who had had the faith to sow that year.
On either hand were rows of smiling faces, the men's burned and
bronzed, the women's kissed into faintly warmer color by the sun, and
white shoulders shone amidst the somberly covered ones, while here and
there a diamond gleamed on a snowy neck. Barrington sat at the head of
the longest table, with his niece and sister, Dane and his oldest
followers about him, and Winston at its foot, dressed very simply after
the usual fashion of the prairie farmers. There were few in the
company who had not noticed this, though they did not as yet understand
its purport.
Nothing happened during dinner, but Maud Barrington noticed that,
although some of his younger neighbors rallied him, Winston was grimly
quiet. When it was over, Barrington rose, and the men who knew the
care he had borne that year never paid him more willing homage than
they did when he stood smiling down on them. As usual he was
immaculate in dress, erect, and quietly commanding, but in spite of its
smile his face seemed worn, and there were thickening wrinkles, which
told of anxiety, about his eyes.
"Another year has gone, and we have met again to celebrate with
gratefulness the fulfillment of the promise made when the world was
young," he said.
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