Close her knee the Harvester knelt on the hearth with his toasting fork. She leaned forward and ran her fingers through his hair.
“You're a braw laddie,” she said. “Now I see why Ruthie WOULD come.”
The Harvester took the frail hand and kissed it. “Thank you!” he returned.
“Mush!” exploded the grizzled man in the rear.
When no one wanted more food the Harvester stacked and carried away the dishes, swept the hearth, and replaced the toaster.
“Ruth and I often lunched this way last fall,” he said. “We liked it for a change.”
“Alexander, have you noticed?” asked the little woman as she lifted wet eyes to a beautiful portrait of her daughter beside the chimney.
“D'ye think I'm blind? Saw it as I entered the door. Poor taste! Very! Brown may match the rug and wood-work, but it's a wretched colour for a young girl in her gay time. Should be pink and white with a gold frame.”
“That would be beautiful,” agreed the Harvester. “We must have one that way. This is not an expensive picture. It is only an enlargement from an old photograph.”
“We have a number of very handsome likenesses. Which one can you spare Ruth, Marcella?”