So she went into the kitchen, took six doughnuts out of a stone crock, put them on a plate, and brought them out to the veranda.
“Maybe you’d like one,” she said.
It was a mistake. While the man was eating a doughnut, he did not look in the least old, or like a wooden Indian. Indeed, his enjoyment was positively boyish, and Miss Carter could not help feeling a little touched. She invited him to take another and another.
“Did you make them?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” replied Miss Carter, with modest pride.
“I never tasted anything like them—never!” he declared.
“Well, I like to cook,” said Miss Carter.
“You know,” he went on, “your niece told me a good deal about you, and—”
“Maude makes the most delicious soda biscuits!” cried Miss Carter, suddenly recalled to her duty.
“She told me all you’d done for her,” he continued. “I—I wanted to meet you. I”—he paused—“I knew you’d be—like this!”