"Oh, shucks, Daddy! I know a better way than that. Susan an' me used to do it all the time while you were away."
"What did you do?" he asked curiously, for he had forgotten that more than half the childish play world is the world of "make believe.'"
"Why, we—we just 'let on,'" she answered, with simple naïveté. "Sit down an' I'll show you how."
He sat down obediently, but not before he had picked up an old tin can from nearby and set it carefully between them.
"This rock is our table—the moss is the table cloth. Oh, it isn't green," she cried as he looked down in serious doubt. "You must help me make believe. Now—doesn't it look nice and white?"
"It does, indeed. I can see nothing but snowy linen of the finest texture," he responded instantly.
"That's better," complimented his hostess. And then with a grand air—
"I'm so glad you dropped in, sir—an' just at supper time. Pass your plate an' allow me to help you to some batter bread."
"Batter bread! Ah, just what I was hoping for," her guest replied, thankfully extending his plate for the imaginary feast.
"Thank you. Delicious. The very best I've tasted for a year. Did you make it yourself?"