"These are exactly right, anyway," returned the other calmly. "There never was a cookie outside this house that tasted as good."
"Oh now, that's silly, Mr. Gorham," returned Miss Berry with a pleased smile.
"No, it is sound sense. I feel old, and tired of things very often. If I could only get hold of one of these at such moments, I should be young again in a minute, with an appetite for everything. If you should some day receive a telegram asking for a cookie, you may know that I need to be rejuvenated, and mail me one at once."
"Have you forgotten my currant wine?" asked Miss Berry radiantly.
"Well, I guess not! But you never let me know where you kept that."
His hostess laughed. "No sir, indeed I didn't. You set where you are, and I'll fetch it out."
She was as good as her word, and in a short time a little table stood at Page's elbow, and upon it a bottle and two glasses.
"I am sure I'm a big boy now," he laughed, as he poured the wine, "since you trust me with this. I well remember the half glasses you used to give me as a treat. How many summers did we come here, Aunt Love?"
"Pretty near every year after you was ten years old till you went to college."
A little silence fell between them, for it was that summer before Page's collegiate life began that his mother bade him a last good-by upstairs in this very house, in the low-ceiled chamber where the branches of the oriole elm cast their shadow.