The first supper was difficult because she was determined to have it absolutely perfect, and her mother would insist upon getting in her way, offering various suggestions that might save a tenth of a cent.
“I tell you, Mumsy, I am not saving but making. Please sit down in this chair by the 82 table, while I behave like the man in the lunatic asylum who thought he was a steam engine. I’m afraid I might get off the track and run over you. If you just stay still in one spot I’ll get through. I can’t go over you, I can’t go around you and I can’t go under you.
“There’s the whistle blowing for two stops before ours and I’m ready. Hurrah for a fortune, Mumsy!” and with a kiss Judith was off, bearing a basket in one hand and a tin cooler of buttermilk in the other.
The Bucks’ farm was a triangle, bounded on two sides by converging roads and the other by the pasture lands of Buck Hill. The trolley line skirted the back of the farm, but turned sharply toward Ryeville before reaching the corner where the two roads met. The track curved about five hundred feet beyond the location of the stop where Judith had promised to meet the car with the suppers. There was a short cut from the rear of the house and Judith always took short cuts. Through the orchard, down the hill, across a stream, up the hill, skirting a blackberry thicket, through a grove of beeches, dark and peaceful with lengthening shadows falling on mossy banks, went the girl. She stopped a moment in the grove and looked out across the fertile country—everywhere more 83 fertile than the Buck farm but nowhere more beautiful, she thought.
“I wish I had time to stop here longer,” she sighed, putting down her basket and patting a great beech tree. “Thank goodness the Bucks were too lazy to cut you down and the Knights too slow.” The honk of an automobile horn startled her. A seven-seated passenger car was coming down the road and in the distance could be seen the approaching trolley.
“Got to run after all,” she cried. “That’s what I get for making love to a tree.” She flew along the path by the fence and reached the small station before the trolley slowed down for the stop. Breathless but triumphant she stood, large basket in one hand, buttermilk cooler in the other.
The big motor car, which was driven by Jeff Bucknor, was parked by the roadside. From it emerged Mildred and Nan in all the glory of fresh and frilly lawns and the latest in hats from a Louisville milliner.
“Now, Jeff,” said Mildred, “you must get out and meet the bunch, and be sure you make no mistake. You are to fall in love with Jean Roland and no one else. She is the smallest and the darkest and much the best dressed. I do hope and trust it will be love at first sight. 84 She is already just wild about you, without ever even seeing you, and when she sees you she is sure to topple over completely.”
“What nonsense,” scoffed Jeff.
Mildred ignored the presence of Judith Buck, although they could not help seeing her, since her blue cotton dress and her red gold hair made a spot of color that would surely have affected the optics of a stone blind person. Her color was naturally high, and frying chicken over a hot wood stove and sprinting for the trolley had added to it. Nan did worse than ignore the presence of her neighbor, as she openly nudged her sister and whispered audibly: