"Mr. Anthony's been here," said Erastus cheerfully; "I'm awful sorry you missed him. We had some cider and doughnuts."
The three women stopped suddenly, and stared at the speaker.
"Why, Paw Burson!" ejaculated the elder daughter, "did you give Mr. Anthony doughnuts and cider out here on this porch?"
"Why, yes, Millie," apologized the father; "I looked for cookies, but I couldn't find any. He said he liked doughnuts, and he did seem to relish 'em; he eat several."
"That awful rich man! Why, Paw Burson!"
The young woman gave an awe-stricken glance about her, as if expecting to discover some lingering traces of wealth.
"Doughnuts!" she repeated helplessly.
"Why, Millie," faltered the father, mildly aggressive, "I don't see why being rich should take away a man's appetite; I'm sure I hope I'll never be too rich to like doughnuts and cider."
"Didn't you give him a napkin, paw?" queried the younger girl.
"No," said the father meekly, "he had his handkerchief. I coaxed him to stay to dinner, but he couldn't; and I asked him to drive out some day with his wife and daughter—he hasn't but one—they lost a little girl when she was seven"—