No, Susan had forgotten all about it.
So, as she stepped about putting their dinner on the table, Miss Liza told Phil the story of the buried ten cents.
“You know, Phil,” said she, “you are living in my house,—the house I was born and brought up in. And one day, when I was a little girl eight years old, my uncle, who had a farm a mile or so away, drove past our house and saw me in the road.
“‘Here’s ten cents,’ said he. ‘Five for you and five for Jim.’ Jim was my brother. Now I was a selfish little thing,” said Miss Liza, shaking her head, “and what did I do but dig a hole under the kitchen window and put the ten cents in it. Some day, when Jim was out of the way, I meant to dig it up and spend it all on myself. But do you know, I never have found that money from that day to this. I dug, and Jim dug, and Susan here has dug, and I suppose you will try now. If you find it, be sure you let me know.”
“I will find it,” said Phil, excited. “I will. You see.”
Miss Liza nodded wisely.
“That is what Susan thought,” she answered. “Now draw up to the table. I hope you are hungry.” And Miss Liza smiled hospitably round at her guests.
They were hungry. The good dinner disappeared from their plates like magic, but the crowning touch came when the little cakes shaped like fish and leaves and stars appeared upon the table.
“I told Phil about them,” Susan repeated over and over; “I told him, I told him.”
After dinner, Susan and Phil went into the garden to fill their pails with currants and raspberries. It must be admitted that they picked more raspberries than currants, and that they put almost as many berries into their mouths as into their pails.