“Oh, I—I—don't you think I am entitled now—to have something end happily—now—once—in my life?”
He pitied her and was silent.
“Tell me,” she said after a while, “you have moved father and Lily to—to—one of the Cottontown cottages?”
He arose: “In a little while I will tell you, but now we must have something to eat first—you see I had this lunch fixed for our journey.” He went out, over to his lap-robe and cushion, and brought a basket and placed it on an old table.
“You may begin now and be my housekeeper,” he smiled. “Isn't it time you were learning? I daresay I'll not find you a novice, though.”
She flushed and smiled. She arose gracefully, and her pretty hands soon had the lunch spread, Travis helping her awkwardly.
It was a pretty picture, he thought—her flushed girlish face, yet matronly ways. He watched her slyly, with a sad joyousness in his eyes, drinking it in, as one who had hungered long for contentment and peace, such as this.
She had forgotten everything else in the housekeeping. She even laughed some at his awkwardness and scolded him playfully, for, man-like, forgetting a knife and fork. It was growing chilly, and while she set the lunch he went out and brought in some wood. Soon a fine oak fire burned in the fireplace.
They sat at the old table at last, side by side, and ate the delightful lunch. Under the influence of the bottle of claret, from The Gaffs cellar, her courage came and her animation was beautiful to him—something that seemed more of girlhood than womanhood. He drank it all in—hungry—heart-hungry for comfort and love; and she saw and understood.
Never had he enjoyed a lunch so much. Never had he seen so beautiful a picture!