"Father said you had met him at The Players," added Margaret.
"Met him—why I've known Mr. Randall for years! It seems mighty good to think I'm going to see the dear fellow again. Well, that is good news—dear old Jack!"
They were standing in the open doorway of the cabin. Holcomb thought he had never seen her look prettier than she did this sunny morning without her hat—dressed as she was in a simple frock of some soft white fabric cut low about her plump brown throat.
"May I come inside," she asked timidly, as she peeped into the new interior.
"Why, certainly. Come in and sit down; you are really the only visitor I've had except your father—sit down—won't you?" He drew a chair up to his freshly scrubbed deal table.
Margaret looked up into his eyes—half seriously for a moment, as she stood by the proffered chair.
"You are coming to dine with us while he's here," she said in her frank way. "Father says you must."
Billy's embarrassment was evident. "That's really kind of him," he replied, "but don't you think I'd better wait until—"
"There—you're going to refuse; I was half afraid you would. But you will come—won't you? Please, Mr. Holcomb!" She seated herself opposite him, resting her adorable little chin in her hands, her eyes again looking into his own.
"I mean I'd rather your mother had asked me," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "I'm afraid Mrs. Thayor would be better pleased if I did not come, much as I'd like to."