"No, I ain't eat it. I ain't no goat!" and the man buried his face in his paper. For him the incident was closed.
Here there came a still small voice floating out from the lips of the Dear Old Lady, slowly, one word at a time:
"Ain't you set on it?"
"Set on it! What!"
She was on her feet now, pulling her skirt around, craning her neck, her face getting whiter and whiter as the truth dawned upon her.
"Oh, Lordy! Jes' look at it! However did I come to! Oh!"
"Here, take my handkerchief," murmured the Dear Old Lady. "Let me help wipe it off." And she laid down her knitting.
Oh, but it was a beautiful stain! A large, irregular, map-like stain, with the counties plotted in bits of ham and the townships in smears of bread, with little rivers of butter running everywhere. One dear, beloved rill in an ecstasy of delight had skipped a fold and was pushing a heap of butter ahead of it down a side plait.
I hugged myself with the joy of it all. If it had only been a crock she had sat in, with sandwiches enough to supply a picnic!
And the stain!