“There’s a picture of George Washington,” said Jim, as his glance roamed about the room. “Wonder if there’s a village hotel in any part of the original thirteen states, which hasn’t a picture of our immortal ancestor?”
“Probably not,” smiled Gerald. “Thomas Jefferson seems also to be a favorite. See, there he is, peeking at you from behind the what-not.”
“And there’s Robert E. Lee, bless his heart,” cried Dorothy, to whom the southern hero’s name was the occasion for no little amount of reverence—thoughts that had been instilled in her mind by Aunt Betty, loyal southerner that she was.
The hotel proprietor appeared on the scene a few moments later with the cheery remark:
“You all can come into the dinin’-room now.”
He led the way through the hall and into a small, though comfortable, room, where the landlady had already begun to serve the breakfast.
Their appetites sharpened by the ride, everyone did ample justice to the things which were put before them. Even Aunt Betty, usually a light eater, consumed three eggs, two glasses of milk and a plate of fried bacon, topping them off with a cup of strong coffee.
“Whatever has come over you?” cried Dorothy in delight. “I never knew you to eat so much for breakfast, auntie, dear.”
“I just wanted it,” was Aunt Betty’s response, “and, wanting it, I see no reason why I should not have it. I have no intention of denying myself what sustenance I require.”
“Then never talk to me again about being an invalid!” cried the girl. “When I came back to Bellvieu I was led to believe that you were fast failing in health. But, as yet, I have seen no indication that you are not as hale and hearty as the best of us.”