She leaned out from beneath the shadow of her pink-lined umbrella and smiled at me. Seldom it was that Wanza smiled at me like that. Friends we were—friends of years’ standing—but Wanza was chary of her smiles where I was concerned, and I must confess I found her frowns piquant enough.
The day that passed without Wanza whistling from her peddler’s cart at my door seemed more cheerless than usual. Wanza peddled everything, from shoe laces to linen dusters. She was the apple of her father’s eye, the pride of the village, and the delight of the steamboat men on the river. Ever since I had known her she had been her father’s housekeeper. Her mother had died when Wanza was a baby. And she and her father lived alone in a funny little house, flanked by a funny little garden, on the edge of the village.
“Wanza,” I cried eagerly, “come in to supper with Joey and me.”
I looked up at her pleadingly. Her charming elf-face continued to smile down at me. She shook her head slowly.
“Please,” I begged.
Gradually the smile left her face, a shrewd look replaced it.
“I can make you a cake,” she began hesitatingly, “if you’ve got any brown sugar in the cabin.”
“We don’t want you to bake for us, Wanza—we have a good meal laid out, and we want you to honor us by sharing it.”
“Glory! Is that it, Mr. David Dale? Well, I’ll stay. Not,” she added quickly, “that I wouldn’t be too tickled to make you a cake, only—”
“Only—Wanza?”