In due time dinner was ready, and Andy was summoned from the woodpile. He was in nowise sorry for the summons. He had a hearty appetite at all times, and just now it was increased by his unrequited labor in turning the grindstone for Deacon Jones, as well as by the half-hour he had spent at his new task.
The Misses Grant did their own work, as I have before observed. They were excellent cooks, and the dinner now upon the table, though plain, was very savory and inviting. Andy's eyes fairly danced with satisfaction as they rested on the roast beef and vegetables, which emitted an odor of a highly satisfactory character. At the farmer's where he had last worked, the table had been plentifully supplied, but the cooking was very rudimentary.
"Sit down, Andrew," said Miss Priscilla. "I think that is your name."
"They call me 'Andy,' ma'am."
"That means Andrew. Shall I give you some meat?"
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Will you have it rare or well done?"
"Well done, ma'am. I have it rare enough, anyhow."
"Sophia, Andrew has made a joke," said Priscilla, with a decorous smile.
"Just so, Priscilla," and Sophia smiled also.