“Indeed I will,” I replied, trying not to make my response too eager.
“Did mother make gingerbread to-day?” I heard the boy whisper audibly.
“Sh-h—” replied the girl, “who is that man?”
“I don't know” with a great accent of mystery—“and dad don't know. Did mother make gingerbread?”
“Sh-h—he'll hear you.”
“Gee! but he can plant potatoes. He dropped down on us out of a clear sky.”
“What is he?” she asked. “A tramp?”
“Nope, not a tramp. He works. But, Sis, did mother make gingerbread?”
So we all got into the light wagon and drove briskly out along the shady country road. The evening was coming on, and the air was full of the scent of blossoms. We turned finally into a lane and thus came promptly, for the horse was as eager as we, to the capacious farmyard. A motherly woman came out from the house, spoke to her son, and nodded pleasantly to me. There was no especial introduction. I said merely, “My name is Grayson,” and I was accepted without a word.
I waited to help the man, whose name I had now learned—it was Stanley—with his horse and wagon, and then we came up to the house. Near the back door there was a pump, with a bench and basin set just within a little cleanly swept, open shed. Rolling back my collar and baring my arms I washed myself in the cool water, dashing it over my head until I gasped, and then stepping back, breathless and refreshed, I found the slim girl, Mary, at my elbow with a clean soft towel. As I stood wiping quietly I could smell the ambrosial odours from the kitchen. In all my life I never enjoyed a moment more than that, I think.