“Probably haven’t had eggs for months,” was her mental comment.
As she took her egg and cut it in two with her knife, it was like the breaking of bread in sacrament.
As the meal was eaten she watched the eager eyes of the two waiting children. Then, of a sudden, in the eyes of those little ones, a near tragedy occurred.
“Have another egg,” said the hostess to Florence, passing the plate as she did so.
Without thinking, she put out a hand to take one. Then, of a sudden, the youngest child threw herself flat on the floor while her little form shook with silent sobbing.
“No, I don’t think I care for another,” Florence said quickly, drawing back her hand just in time.
At once, with face wreathed in smiles, the little one was on her feet.
“They do this for me,” thought Florence, swallowing hard. “What must I not do for them?”
Nine o’clock found Florence safely tucked away in the bed which occupied a corner of the small living room. In the kitchen-living room slept her host and his good wife, while from above her there came an occasional rustle or thump that told plainer than words that the three children, having given up their bed to the teacher, had gone to sleep on the floor of the attic. Here was one more token of the unusual hospitality of these kindly mountain people.
The ceiling, at which the girl lay staring with sleepless eyes, was strange indeed. In some way Jeff Crider had obtained enough mill sawed boards to cover the rough hewn beams. Some way, too, he had obtained enough paint to cover the boards. Then, that he might produce a decorative effect, before the paint was dry he had held a smoking, globeless kerosene lamp close to the paint, and, moving about in ever widening circles, had painted there black roads that led round and round in endless ways to nowhere.