"Come along, folks," she cried, "or the coffee 'll be cold."
The men hurried into the house. Gordon felt that there was nothing and no power on earth that could keep him from his breakfast in that delicious mountain air, with Hazel for his hostess.
The meal was all he anticipated. Simple, ample, wholesome country fare, with the accompaniment of perfect cooking. He ate with an appetite that set Hazel's merry eyes dancing, and her tongue accompanying them with an equally merry banter. And all the time Silas Mallinsbee looked on, and smiled, and rumbled an occasional remark.
After breakfast the two men set out with their guns.
"We're sure making Sunday service," said Hazel's father, glancing into the breech of his favorite gun.
Gordon concurred.
"Up in the woods there," he laughed.
"With a congregation of fur and feather," laughed Hazel.
"Which is as wholesome as petticoats an' swallowtails," said her father, "an' a good deal more healthy fer our bodies."
"But what about your souls?" inquired Hazel slyly.