Mr. Jimson, filled with curiosity, turned to the composed little old lady who came in from the veranda and shook hands with him. This was Madam Travers. He had been familiar with her face for years, but she never before had spoken to him.
“Will you stay and have a cup of tea with my granddaughter and me?” she asked him, when he looked uncomfortably toward the door.
His gaze went again to the table. A rising breeze had just brushed aside the napkin covering a pitcher.
“Is that a jug of buttermilk I see?” he asked, wistfully.
“It is,” said the old lady, kindly.
“Then I’ll stay,” he said, and he dropped his hat on a chair.
Grandma and Berty both smiled, and he smiled himself, and, looking longingly toward the table, said, “I can’t get it at home, and in the restaurants it is poor stuff.”
“And do you like curds and cream?” asked Grandma, leading the way to the table.
“Yes, ma’am!” he said, vigorously.
“And sage cheese, and corn-cake, and crullers?”