“Now,” she went on briskly, to cover her confusion, “there are a lot of newspapers at the house that of course you haven't read. I'll send them over, with a book or two Mrs. Ponshette, at York, sent down for Christmas. You really must do something to pass the time.”
Once more, Donald thanked her, when suddenly, without the slightest intention, his pipe slipped from his fingers, and fell to the floor. With an exclamation of annoyance, he picked it up, to find that the amber stem had broken off close to the brier, rendering it almost useless. Now he must have the other pipe, despite what Peter Rainy had hinted, and who could get it but Laura Fitzpatrick?
Showing her the broken pieces in his hand, he exclaimed that life would be unbearable without tobacco, and asked her to send his reserve pipe over from the rack in the hall. This she promised to do, and a little later rose to take her leave.
“You're not a good host, Captain McTavish,” she said, at the doorway.
“Why?” he questioned.
“You haven't asked me to call again.”
“Forgive me!” cried the confused man. “Please, come as often as you wish. I have enjoyed the visit immensely.”
“So have I,” she returned, with a coy, sidelong look from her mild blue eyes, and then, at last, she shut the door behind her.
Donald was really grateful for the call, as it had taken his mind from the brooding that had occupied it so continuously, and, for hours afterward, he smiled almost unconsciously at the quaint transparency, but utter good-heartedness, of the woman's character.
Early in the afternoon, the promised package of papers and the pipe arrived. The prisoner, who, like all northern woodsmen, found a pipe his boon companion, filled the bowl with tobacco, and tried to light it.