“You sure do make my mouth water,” groaned Bill. “I only wish we could stop, and meet your husband, Mrs. Johnson. If you’ll keep the invitation open, we’d love to take advantage of it some other time.”
The good lady passed them their tea and a plate heaped with golden brown crullers.
“We’ll make it next Sunday noon then. Our children are all married, with homes of their own. Mr. Johnson and I miss not having young folks round the house. It’ll make it seem like the good old times again, if you come. Don’t forget now, next Sunday.”
“We’ll be here with bells on, Mrs. Johnson,” promised Bill.
“And we’ll try not to look like a couple of tramps then,” added Dorothy.
“You’ll always be welcome, no matter what you wear,” declared their hostess. “I’ll make another pumpkin pie for you.”
They chatted for ten minutes or so and then bade Mrs. Johnson goodbye.
“Uncle Abe will take you out to the garage,” she said in parting. “Take the Buick. You’ll need a closed car on a day like this.”
When the kitchen door had shut out the smiling, motherly figure, and they were following the old darky along the drive, Dorothy turned to Bill.
“And they say that New Englanders are not hospitable! Why, they’re the most hospitable people in America if you really know them!”