When the next day was declining and Durgan, having dismissed his negroes, was preparing his evening meal, he heard Bertha's step on the narrow trail that, hidden in rocks and shrubs, led from the summit. She paused on a ledge that overlooked his platform, and, holding with one arm to a young fir tree, lowered a basket on the crook of her mountain staff. Framed in a thicket of silver azalea buds, strong and beautiful as a sylvan nymph, she looked down at him, dangling her burden and laughing.
"Pudding!" said she in oracular tone.
"For me?"
"Pie!" said she.
He lifted a vain hand for what was still above his reach.
Then she lowered the staff with an air of resigned benevolence.
"Pudding and pie. But you don't deserve them, for you were too proud to come to supper, even when I invited you."
"You must remember that to be worthy of my hire I grow stiff by sundown."
She was looking at him now with grave attention. "Have you got a looking-glass?" she asked.