“I wonder if heavenly messengers wear blue aprons and tennis shoes,” the young man said to himself, “because if they do, I am sure Gwen is one of them.” He patted his breast pocket to make sure the bulky wallet was there, hoping it held in some way good for the little English girl but determined to say nothing about it until Helen had her first peep.
“Can it be possible that I am falling in love with Helen?” he muttered. “She is not more than seventeen, and, besides, it was only yesterday that I determined never to put myself in the way of being insulted by her again so long as I should live. Here I am starving to death (this roll and coffee will be only a drop in the bucket of my great appetite) and still I’d rather go see her than eat the breakfast I can smell cooking. I promised the father and mother to look after the children while they were taking my prescription, and this is a fine way to do it: to fall in love with one of them! Besides, Helen is not a bit prettier than Douglas, not so clever as Nan, and so spoiled that she can be certainly very disagreeable, but still—still—she is Helen—and Bobby loves her best of all. Anyhow, I think I’ll eat my breakfast first before I go to her, since she does not need my professional services.”
“I never see folks eat like these here week-enders,” declared Oscar, as breakfast progressed and he came to the kitchen for more hot rolls. He also brought directions from Douglas for Susan to scramble a dish of eggs for some of the late comers who found nothing but herring tails for their portion of a dish ever dear to the heart of all Virginians.
“I don’t see how the young ladies ’spects to clar nothin’ out’n their ventur’some if’n all the payin’ guests eats ekal to these here,” said Susan, as she took another pan of rolls out of the oven and put a skillet on the stove to get hot for the eggs. “I’s done been to many springs an’ sich with Mis Carter when I was a-nussin’ of Bobby an’ I never yet seed any of the pr’ietors knock up a dish er eggs fer no sleepy haids. Fus’ come, fus’ serve, an’ las’ come satisfy theyselves with herrin’ tails an’ coffee drugs. Miss Gwen done made three pots er coffee already an’ she mought jes’ as well be pourin’ it down the bottomless pit fer all the showin’ it’s done made. If’n these folks is gonter eat all mornin’, I’d like ter know whin we’s ter git the dishes washed.”
“Well, dey won’t need no scrapin’,” laughed Oscar, as he bore away the plates heaped with crusty turnovers. “I been a-bettin’ on Mr. Bill Tinsley, but looks lak Dr. Wright kin hole his own with the bes’ of them.”
“One thing sho,” grumbled Susan, who had the customary bad humor of the Sunday morning cook, “th’ain’t no use’n a clock up’n in this here camp. Whin you gits through with breakfast, it’s time ter begin dinner.”
CHAPTER XX.
THE WALLET.
“Did you sleep?”