Having given the children all the chairs the house afforded, she seated herself upon the bed. Mr. Wasson sat upon the stove, which, fortunately for him, had no fire.
But the next moment he sprang up to bring his visitors water from the Mexican olla swinging upon the porch; and this reminded Mrs. Wasson that they might be hungry, and she bustled to the “cooler,” or “window cupboard,” at the north for a loaf of rye bread and a plate of honey.
Molly thought she had never eaten anything nicer than those slices of bread spread with ranch butter and amber honey; but when Kirke looked longingly at a third slice, her sense of politeness took alarm, and she asked Pauline in a whisper if they ought not to go.
Pauline arose quickly.
“We’ve had a splendid time, Mrs. Wasson. Thank you ever so much for the luncheon.”
“We always have a splendid time here,” added Paul, stepping over the threshold. “What a frolic we had last summer with Mèdor! Where is that dog, Mrs. Wasson? I haven’t seen him to-day.”
“O Master Paul! haven’t you heard? Our Mèdor is dead!” Mrs. Wasson brushed away a tear with her purple calico sleeve. “Would you like to visit his grave? It’s to the left, under the weeping willow.”
“Indeed we should!” cried the twins in a breath; “Mèdor was a dear old dog!”
“There never was a better,” responded Mr. Wasson, leading the way. “He came to us a little puppy. We lived in ’Frisco then, on Telegraph Hill, and we’ve owned him ever since.”
“Father says if he could spell ‘able’ he’d hire a poet to write Mèdor’s epitaph,” panted Mrs. Wasson, trying to keep up with the rest.