“They are dear little fellows,” said Dosia warmly.
“They were going up-stairs to bed. I was behind ’em, and Angy—that’s the eldest, he’s six—was stoppin’ the way; so I says to him, ‘What’s stoppin’ you, son?’ and he answers: ‘Oh, I’m carryin’ up Jim’s cake and my cake, and I’m eatin’ Jim’s cake now.’ That’s like Martin for all the world—always carryin’ somebody’s cake for ’em, and swallowin’ it on the way. Well, doesn’t it seem good to be lookin’ at you again, Miss Dosia! But I’m sorry Alexander isn’t in, too.”
“Oh, I hope he’ll come before you leave,” returned Lois. It seemed a foregone conclusion that he must, when it was discovered that the nine-forty-five train back to town was then on the point of departure, half a mile away, and the next did not leave until eleven-fifteen. There was a genuineness about Mr. Cater which could not fail to win responsive recognition, but the contemplation of an inexorably fixed time over which conversation must be spread has an indescribably paralyzing effect on spontaneity. Like many talkative people, Mr. Cater developed a way, when you counted upon his garrulousness, of suddenly becoming silent.
Lois busied herself in collecting the materials for refreshment, while Dosia and he conversed laboriously and minutely about the denizens of Balderville, to the third and fourth generation. The very word “home” carried such suggested association that Dosia half forgot that it had never been one for her, and that to leave its semblance had been a joy.
When the little meal was ready, Lois manipulated the chafing-dish and Dosia served. Mr. Cater moved to the little chair drawn up with the others by the small mahogany table, and relaxed once more.
“Well, this is comfort,” he said, with a sort of wistful gratitude. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’twas pretty inconsiderate of me to miss that train, but I’m sort of glad now that I did. When I see you two beautiful young ladies takin’ all this trouble for me—well, I just can’t tell you how I appreciate it; sort of warms me up inside.”
“You must get pretty lonely sometimes,” said Lois kindly, with a sudden sympathy for something in his tone.
He nodded slowly. “Well, yes, I do; but I’ve quit thinkin’ of it, as a rule. I reckon I’ve got about as much as I deserve in this world, when you come to sizin’ things up. If you get to pityin’ yourself, you slump; you slump all to pieces—ain’t no mortal good to yourself nor anybody else. I’ve found that out.”
“You seem to find out a good many things,” said Lois, with a twinge of assent.
“Well, yes, I do.” His face relaxed in a pleased smile. “Keep addin’ to my collection daily; but it isn’t cheap, no more than other collectin’—costs money. Girard says—by the way, I never asked you if you knew Girard, Bailey Girard; I met him to-night getting off the train. I didn’t know he was on it till then. Mrs. Alexander, this rabbit’s more’n good. I haven’t had one like it since I was with Girard last year.”