He strode on, Jack by his side, till presently through the trees she saw a log cabin.
“Yonder is my poor dwelling which you will presently honor with your fair presence,” said the artist. He tossed down his traps upon the ground outside, fitted a key in the lock and flung open the door. “Enter, sweet lady,” he cried. “Here I abide for a space. Yonder are the rude implements of my craft; there the poor results of my labor. Here I sleep upon this modest couch; there I warm my weary limbs before the open fire.”
“What a dear place,” exclaimed Jack, looking around her.
“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” said her host dropping his high-flown language. “I got those old quilts from a farmhouse, and isn’t that a jolly lot of plates? Same source. This pitcher I picked up away back in the mountains, real old Helmit, you see, and the plates are Wedgewood without doubt. The quilts make good portières, don’t you think? These rugs an old woman in one of the mountain villages did for me from rags she sewed herself, and the rest of the things Pinch and I have picked up here and there. My studio is beyond the curtain. I’ll show you it presently. Pinch and I built the cabin ourselves with a little local talent to help with the practical part. This is our third summer up here.”
“And don’t you love it?”
“I should say. Well, rather. Let us get something to eat and then I’ll show you around.”
So in a few minutes they were merrily preparing the meal which was set forth on an old deal table in the most informal manner. Jack’s scrambled eggs turned out excellently and her buns formed a necessary adjunct to the bread supply. She insisted upon washing the dishes in a very housewifely way, to the great glee of her entertainer. “Great Cæsar!” he said, “but you are a cracker-jack at doing things. Lots of girls couldn’t, you know, not girls as young as you.”
“I’m thirteen,” returned Jack with dignity.
“Are you really? Well, that isn’t antique exactly, yet you’re tall for your age, too.”
“Jean, my twin sister, isn’t near so tall.”