“Yes. It is measuring-up day. I've been toddling through the drifts and sliding down chiflons”—he looked ruefully at the backs of his trousers legs—“ever since seven o'clock this morning. Haven't had time to eat any luncheon yet, you see.” He took from another pocket a small package folded in a coarse napkin. “I came here to satisfy the pangs of hunger and enjoy the beauties of nature at the same time,—such nature as we have here. Will you excuse me, Miss Newell? I'll promise to eat very fast.”
“I'll excuse you if you will not ask me to eat with you.”
“Oh, I've entirely too much consideration for myself to think of such a thing; there isn't enough for two.”
He seated himself, with a little sigh, and opened the napkin on the ground before him. Miss Newell stood leaning against a rock on the opposite side of the brook, regarding the young man with a shy and smiling curiosity. “Meals,” he continued, “are a reckless tribute to the weakness of the flesh we all engage in three times a day at the boarding-house; a man must eat, you know, if he expects to live. Have you ever tried any of Mrs. Bondy's fare, Miss Newell?”
“I'm sure Mrs. Bondy tries to have everything very nice,” the young girl replied, with some embarrassment.
“Of course she does; she is a very good old girl. I think a great deal of Mrs. Bondy; but when she asks me if I have enjoyed my dinner, I always make a point of telling her the truth; she respects me for it. This is her idea of sponge cake, you see.” He held up admiringly a damp slab of some compact pale-yellow substance, with crumbs of bread adhering to one side. “It is a little mashed, but otherwise a fair specimen.”
Miss Frances laughed. “Mr. Arnold, I think you are too bad. How can she help it, with those dreadful Chinamen? But I would really advise you not to eat that cake; it doesn't look wholesome.”
“Oh, as to that, I've never observed any difference; one thing is about as wholesome as another. Did you ever eat bacon fried by China Sam? The sandwiches were made of that. You see I still live.” The sponge cake was rapidly disappearing. “Miss Newell, you look at me as if I were making away with myself, instead of the cake,—will you appear at the inquest?”
“No, I will not testify to anything so unromantic; besides, it might be inconvenient for Mrs. Bondy's cook.” She put on her hat, and stepped along the stones towards the entrance to the glen.
“You are not going to refuse me the last offices?”