She laid her hand in his.
“You can trust me,” he said briefly, and became on the instant a flitting shadow among the lilac bushes, lightly vaulting over the fence and mingling with the darker shadows beyond.
Chapter IX.
“Now, Henry,” said Mrs. Daggett, as she smilingly set a plate of perfectly browned pancakes before her husband, which he proceeded to deluge with butter and maple syrup, “are you sure that’s so, about the furniture? ’Cause if it is, we’ve got two or three o’ them things right in this house: that chair you’re settin’ in, for one, an’ upstairs there’s that ol’ fashioned brown bureau, where I keep the sheets ’n’ pillow slips. You don’t s’pose she’d want that, do you?”
Mrs. Daggett sank down in a chair opposite her husband, her large pink and white face damp with moisture. Above her forehead a mist of airy curls fluttered in the warm breeze from the open window.
“My, ain’t it hot!” she sighed. “I got all het up a-bakin’ them cakes. Shall I fry you another griddleful, papa?”
“They cer’nly do taste kind o’ moreish, Abby,” conceded Mr. Daggett thickly. “You do beat the Dutch, Abby, when it comes t’ pancakes. Mebbe I could manage a few more of ’em.”
Mrs. Daggett beamed sincerest satisfaction.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she deprecated happily. “Ann Whittle says I don’t mix batter the way she does. But if you like ’em, Henry—”
“Couldn’t be beat, Abby,” affirmed Mr. Daggett sturdily, as he reached for his third cup of coffee.