Cherry found the piano stool at just the right height, and without any airs or graces beyond those which were part of her endowment, she started in to play. The windows were open and the music and the moonlight, and the hum of the insects, and the landscape became indissolubly blended, and I blessed Minerva once more for the truly “Puss-in-boots” service she had rendered to the “Marquis of Carabas.”
The dance ended, Cherry turned around on the piano stool and said,
“Minerva chose a very nice piano.”
There was a sound of steps on the porch and the shadow of a man fell across the square hallway. There was also a subdued rap on the door post.
I stepped to the door and found a tramp standing there. He was the typical tramp of the comic papers; unshaven, dusty, blear-eyed, unkempt, stoop shouldered, ragged, un-prepossessing.
“What do you wish?” said I, irritated at the interruption.
He hesitated a moment.
“I’d like a glass of milk,” said he, huskily.
“Well, go around to the back door and the girl will give you one. Don’t you want some meat?”
“Thanks; I don’t care if I do,” said he, wiping his mouth as if my invitation had been a bibulous one.