"You choose then." It was a game that they had played ever since she had come to him. It gave to each meal the atmosphere of an adventure.
"I choose," she clapped her hands, "I choose—by the fish-pond, Uncle Rod."
The fish-pond was at the end of the garden walk. Just beyond it a wooden gate connected a high brick wall and opened upon an acre or two of pasture where certain cows browsed luxuriously. The brick wall and the cows and the quiet of the corner made the fish-pond seem miles away from the town street which was faced by the front of Cousin Margaret's house.
The fish-pond was a favorite choice in the game played by Anne and Uncle Rod. But they did not always choose it because that would have made it commonplace and would have robbed it of its charm.
Anne, rising to arrange the tray, was stopped by Uncle Rodman. "Sit still, my dear; I'll get things ready."
To see him at his housekeeping was a pleasant sight. He liked it, and gave to it his whole mind. The peeling of the peaches with a silver knife, the selection of a bowl of old English ware to put them in, and making of the coffee in a copper machine, the fresh linen, the roses as a last perfect touch.
Anne carried the tray, for his weak arm could not be depended upon; and by the fish-pond they ate their simple meal.
The old fishes had crumbs and came to the top of the water to get them, and a cow looking over the gate was rewarded by the remaining half of the crusty roll. She walked away presently to give place to a slender youth who had crossed the fields and now stood with his hat off looking in.
"If it isn't Anne," he said, "and Uncle Rod."
Uncle Rod stood up. He did not smile and he did not ask the slender youth to enter. But Anne was more hospitable.