Devoutly Northrup vowed he’d be no snag.
He took his place on the east side of the table, so to speak, and the lake was in front of him. The lake was becoming a vital feature in the new environment.
The water was ruffled now; the reflections trembled and the lapping was more insistent.
The food was excellent. Aunt Polly had prepared it and watched, with a true artist’s eye, her guest’s appreciation of it.
“Food is just food to some folks,” she confided, casting a slantwise glance at her brother, “just what you might call fodder. But I allas have held that, viewed rightly, it feeds body and soul.”
Heathcote chuckled.
“And right you are, Aunt Polly!” Northrup said, watching the effect of his familiarity. Nothing occurred. He was being taken for granted.
Bits of history crept into the easy conversation during the 13 meal. Apparently meal-time was a function at the inn, not an episode.
Heathcote and his sister, it appeared, had come to King’s Forest for his health, fifty years before. He was twenty then; Aunt Polly eighteen.
“Just like silly pioneers,” Polly broke in, “but we found health and work and we grew to love the place. We feel toward it as one does to an adopted child, less understanding, but more responsible. Every once so often, when we got into ruts, God Almighty made us realize that He was keeping His hand on the reins,” the dear old soul chuckled happily. “Peter got himself made into a magistrate and that was something to work with. We made a home and friends, but the Forest isn’t an easy proposition. It ain’t changed much. It’s lazy and rough, and I often tell Peter that the place is like two old folks over on the Point, Twombley and Peneluna. Still and scroogy, but keeping up a mighty lot of thinking. If anything ever wakes the Forest up it’s going to show what it’s been cogitating about.”