"Here, Melchisedek, come here!"
But Melchisedek, his paws planted on the hem of Phebe's skirt, was barking madly and making little lunges at something in her lap.
"Get out! Ugh! Do go away! Cicely, call him!"
Cicely stooped and caught up the wriggling little creature who protested loudly, as she tucked him under her arm.
"Might I inquire what that choice morsel is, Phebe?" she asked disdainfully.
"It's a chicken's gizzard," Phebe answered shortly.
"Oh, and you were having a private lunch out here. Beg pardon for disturbing you." Cicely's eyes were dancing, and the dimples in her cheeks were at their deepest; but Phebe never looked up. "Poor little Melchisedek!" the girl went on. "Wouldn't his old Aunt Babe give him one little bittie piece? Well, it was too bad. Do you lunch out here from choice, Babe; or were you sent away from the table?"
"Don't be silly, Cicely. Can't you see I am studying it?"
"What for?"
"To see how it's made."