He lifted his hand impatiently. “Never mind. Or—just a glass of milk.”
She laughed, crossing the room toward the pantry. “You just sit down and see.” And while he still stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, she was back with bread and butter and a glass of jelly and a bowl of milk. She spread these things upon the table, and cut the bread for him, and made him sit down and eat while she hovered over him, her eyes never leaving the brown head as he bent above his plate. Now and then she laughed softly, and more than once she repeated: “You surely have started something this time.”
He ate ravenously. He had not realized his own hunger. But after the second slice, she stopped him. “Now that’s enough,” she declared. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”
He laughed, the first time he had laughed that day. “I guess not,” he declared. “I could eat a house.”
She smiled, carrying the viands back to their places. “Where was you last night?” she asked curiously.
He looked up at her, half resentful, half glad of her friendship and understanding. “Weaver House,” he said.
She made a little grimace. “Golly! You must’ve been pie-eyed for fair.”
He flushed, but he nodded. “Yes.”
“And look what they’ve done to you. It don’t pay, does it, Wint?”
He laughed. “I suppose not.”