Dorothy returned now with the two cups full of fresh spring water, and the little luncheon was soon being made a most enjoyable meal.
“Just like dear old days in Dalton,” said Dorothy, helping the Major to another lettuce sandwich. “I am glad of the holiday. I will have a dear memory to take back to Glenwood now.”
How “glorious” the Major looked. Glorious because his snowy hair fell so gently on his fine, high forehead, because in his rugged cheeks could be plainly seen the glow of health satisfied, because his eyes were so bright—and, oh, how lovely he did look, thought Dorothy, as he sat there in the flickering autumn sunlight, with the great rugged hills behind him and the whole wide world before him!
“It’s a queer picnic,” remarked Dorothy, feeling obliged to keep ever before her the one thought of the miserable Urania.
“But a most delightful one,” replied the Major. “The kind that compensates in ending well. I am perfectly sure we will find your little protégé.”
“Then I think we had better hurry our dessert,” said the daughter, passing the tiny, frosted cakes. “How good everything does taste out of doors!”
“First-rate,” assented the Major between mouthfuls, “but don’t close that basket until I have the one lone sandwich I saw you smuggle in there.”
“And another cup of water?”
“Don’t care if I do,” replied the Major, imitating the boys in his careless manner. “I could eat as much again—Bring it next time.”
After the last crumbs had been disposed of they started off again—this time in the direction of a high rock.