"Before you do anything else," said she, "I want you all to come out and have a bite to eat."
That's the way with Harriet. Just at the moment when you've set your scenery, staged your play, and the curtain is about to go up, she appears with—gingerbread—and stampedes the entire company. Why, you couldn't have kept Fergus——
Harriet had put on her choicest tablecloth and the precious napkins left her by our great-aunt Dorcas, and the old thin glass dishes that came from Grandmother Scribner, which are never used except upon high occasions. It was Sunday night and, as Harriet explained, we never have any supper on Sunday night. There was thick yellow gingerbread, with just a hint in it (not a bit too much and not too little) of the delectable molasses of which it was made, and perfect apple sauce from the earliest Red Astrakhans, cooked so that the rosy quarters looked plump, with sugary crystals sparkling upon them, and thin glass tumblers (of Grandmother Scribner's set) full of sweet milk, yellow and almost foamy at the top.
There are perfect moments in this life!
Nort was in the wildest spirits, the rebound from his unusual mood of seriousness. Nothing escaped him—neither the napkins, nor the spoons, nor the thin old glass, nor the perfect gingerbread, nor the marvellous apple sauce, nor the glow in Harriet's face. She knew that Nort would see it all! Harriet is never so beautiful as when she sits at the head of her own table, her moment of supreme artistry.
"I went to church to-day," said Nort finally.
"You did!" Harriet was vastly pleased.
"Yes," smiled Nort.
This was truly a youth after her own heart.
"Nothing else to do on Sunday in Hempfield," said Nort; "and it was interesting."