“College food seems to agree with me, Miss Pettibone, but it’s not like your baking. I’ve come for a loaf of bread, and to carry off that pot of beans.”
“You can have the bread, child, but not the beans; they was sold hours ago.”
“Too bad,” sighed Barbara. “Give me the gingerbread.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s sold, too.”
“Why do you keep them, then?”
“I always ask my customers to leave them, if they ain’t in any hurry for them. It keeps my shop full, and besides, it makes folks that come in late see what they’ve missed. I notice that the minute a sold sign goes on a thing, it raises its value with most people. Barbara, it does my heart good to see you back again.”
“I’m glad to be back, too. How much are the little cakes?”
“Are you, my dear? Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. Twenty cents a dozen. Do you want them right away? You see, going away from home spoils lots of young folks, these days. Sending ’em away is like teaching them to tell time when they’re children. Of course it’s a matter of education, but after that they’re always on the outlook to see if the clock is fast or slow. And most of the young people who go away to college find it pretty slow in Auburn. I’m glad that you ain’t going to be discontented.”
Barbara looked guilty. She did not want to accept undeserved praise, and yet it was hard to be frank without being impolite.
“Of course I expect to miss college life, Miss Pettibone,” she began.