“And spill the milk? Not much.”
The kitchen looked so bright and cheery as they entered it that Rose seemed to leave her fears outside with the duskiness, and by the time she had strained the milk and put it away, she had forgotten that tramps existed.
Cassie had gone up-stairs to make some needed changes in her toilet, the baby had roused from a short nap and was taking a rather mournful interest in the preparations for supper, when Rose, who had just stopped to ask him whether he would rather have honey or preserves, heard a stealthy step upon the porch. A moment later, the door was pushed slowly open and a man walked in.
“Good evening, ladies. Is your pa at home?”
“N—no,” faltered Rose, trying to settle to her own satisfaction whether this dirty-looking stranger might be some new neighbor, who had come upon legitimate business, or whether he was her one horror—a tramp.
“Any of your big brothers in?” with rather a jocular manner.
“N—no, sir.”
“And I don’t see any bull-dog loafin’ round,” he added.