“I never tasted anything more delicious,” declared Miss Helen. “This is a feast for the gods.”
“And in a banquet hall to match,” said Nan, “a very Walhalla.”
“Good name, Miss Nan,” cried their host. “Walhalla it shall be from henceforth, for we are in a castle rock-bound and in the clouds.” He pointed to the craggy heights surrounding the little pond which lay like an iridescent jewel in the midst of the green.
The hamper showed a surprising array of food for the locality and as each article was passed around some one would exclaim, “Why, where did you get this?” Blueberry pies, doughnuts, spice cakes, crackers, cheese, homemade bread and butter, jams and jellies, olives, and as a crowning dish, chicken salad.
“Well, I never!” cried Jo. “What a provider you are. How you managed to compass all this I can’t see.”
“How they managed to lug it all over here is what I can’t see,” said Miss Helen.
“We took turns, you know, and it was not so very heavy when we had put a pole through the handles of the hamper,” said Ran.
“But where did you get fresh pies and fresh bread?” asked Mrs. Corner.
“I’ll let you into the secret, which after all isn’t much of one. I have a good friend in my neighbor, Mrs. White, who, when given sufficient notice, can get me up almost anything. The salad I must confess to having been a little dubious about, but among the supplies Pinch and I had sent from Portland was a can of olive oil and I made the dressing myself, if you must know.” Mr. Wells was really a little abashed.
“Good boy!” cried Dr. Paul. “It takes an artist to do a thing up brown. You didn’t live four years in Paris for nothing, Marc.”