HE WAVED HIS HAT FROM THE GATE
“O-oh! Would you care to come to supper with us, really?”
“Don’t ask me unless you’re in earnest.”
“Will you come, then, at half-past six?”
“I’ll come. Thank you—immensely. Good-night. Good-night, Mrs. Landis.”
“Good-night, good-night, Mr. Puddin’ Tame,” called the girl as she hobbled up the steps, supported on the older woman’s arm.
He waved his hat from the gate, and the girl blew him a smiling kiss—to the very evident embarrassment of Aunty Landis.
II
Fessenden turned to the right on the main road. At a little distance he paused to glance back at White Cottage.
There was nothing of the colonial manor-house in its lines. Clearly, it had always been the home of humble folk. He fancied that good Aunty Landis—whose husband supplied Sandywood “with eggs and milk and butter”—would be the last to lay claim to gentility.