“Well, we have bread and molasses—our butter is run out, it is hard to get—and some bacon and potatoes and tea. Will that do?”
“Oh, that will do fine. And we have some things with us, if you don't mind.”
“Mind? Not a bit, my dear. You can just suit yourself.”
The dinner was a glorious success. The clean linen, the shining dishes, the silver—for Mrs. Macintyre brought out her wedding presents—gave the table a brilliantly festive appearance in the eyes of those who had lived for some years in the western country.
“You don't appreciate the true significance of a table napkin, I venture to say, Miss Cameron,” said the doctor, “until you have lived a year in this country at least, or how much an unspotted table cloth means, or shining cutlery and crockery.”
“Well, I have been two days at the Royal Hotel, whatever,” replied Moira.
“The Royal Hotel!” exclaimed the doctor aghast. “Our most palatial Western hostelry—all the comforts and conveniences of civilization!”
“Anyway, I like this better,” said Moira. “It is like home.”
“Is it, indeed, my dear?” said the minister's wife greatly delighted. “You have paid me a very fine tribute.”
The hour lengthened into two, for when a departure was suggested the doctor grew eloquent in urging delay. The horses would be all the better for the rest. It would be fine driving in the evening. They could easily make the Black Dog Ford before dark. After that the trail was good for twenty miles, where they would camp. But like all happy hours these hours fled past, and all too swiftly, and soon the travelers were ready to depart.