“Right,” nodded Don.
“I could order it for you from here.”
“Right again,” agreed Don.
It was to be sent to the house, so that Nora could have it roasted that afternoon.
He accomplished these things on his way uptown, and felt quite satisfied with himself. This preparing of a picnic basket was, after all, a very simple matter.
When Miss Winthrop came into the station for the nine-thirty, he was waiting for her with the big wicker basket in his hand.
They rode to a little village hardly large enough to have a name, and getting out there took to the open road.
Don enjoyed the tramp of three miles that followed, but, on the whole, he was glad when they reached the border of the brook. The walking and the flowers and the scenery occupied too much of the girl’s attention. Not only that, but this English wicker basket became heavy in the course of time. At the end of a mile or so it seemed as if the clerk must have lined the bottom of his basket with stones. Don meant to investigate at the first opportunity.
The stream that she had discovered only 176 after several seasons of ardent exploration was not, geographically considered, of any especial importance to the world at large. But behind the clump of alders out of which it crept was a bit of pasture greensward about as big as a room. Here one might lunch in as complete seclusion as if in the Canadian woods or in the heart of Africa.