“Are you having a picnic all by yourself?” she asked, fingering her apron.
“Yes, a kind of picnic. I’m all by myself because my husband has gone to Omaha. You come over here and sit down by me and then I won’t be lonesome any more.”
She approached and snuggled by my side. We introduced ourselves and soon were deep in an interchange of confidences. She located various birds’ nests for me, described the latest family of kittens, discussed the number of eggs laid by her white pullet and many other matters of interest. Then I noticed that she seemed uneasy, examining our luggage with searching glances. Finally, eight-year-old flesh and blood could endure no more.
“Is the picnic in that bundle?” she asked wistfully. “When are you going to eat it?”
“There isn’t very much in that bundle. All I have is bread and butter, but I’ll get you some of that,” I replied, sitting up.
Her face fell, then brightened. “I know what I’ll do,” she cried, springing to her feet and clapping her hands joyously. “I’ll run home and ask mother to put me up some cookies—and some jam—and some hard-boiled eggs—and maybe some animal crackers, horses, you know, and cows and things—oh, I’ll get lots and lots of good things to eat, and then I’ll come back and we’ll have the very nicest picnic ever you saw in all your life.” She danced away with fairy-like grace, leaving me to picture her mother’s expression when informed of the woman who was holding a picnic all by herself on nothing but bread and butter.
Some fifteen minutes passed. Then I heard a gay “hoo-hoo,” and down the hillside came my girlie, skipping up and down and hastening the footsteps of a woman whom I knew at first glance to be her mother.
“This is Ethel, mother,” she cried as I rose to my feet. Then turning to me, “Now you can’t be lonesome any more, ’cause mother’s come her own self.”
There are persons to whom no introduction is necessary; we recognise them at once as old friends. Thus it was with Mrs. Patton and myself. She was soon in possession of my story and invited me to her home to rest and spend as many days as circumstances would permit. I pinned a note for Dan on the tree trunk, gathered our belongings, and set off for the house. Hazel piloted us over the ridge, through orchards and across fields until we came to a long, low farmhouse, cuddling between two hills and almost hidden by masses of vines and trees.
Mrs. Patton was a trained nurse and at once set to work to demonstrate her capabilities. She heated water, gave me a prolonged hot bath, followed by a thorough spine-stretching and massage, tucked me into bed, fed me a bountiful lunch, and then left me to dream away the afternoon in blissful comfort.