“No, ma’am.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Te he! Didn’t know but you were pining for that mince pie I promised you.”
Sam felt his cheeks burn. “I—I—oh, I didn’t mind,” he said confusedly.
“But I did,” said Mrs. Grant crisply. “Somehow I like to keep my promises, and I certainly did promise you that pie. When are you coming to get it?”
“Why—why——”
“I’ll be ready for you any time. Only the sooner, the better.”
“It—it’s very kind of you.” Sam said it courteously, if a trifle brokenly. At the moment his chief thought was to avoid betrayal of his feeling in the matter of all mince pies, a feeling which, of a sudden, had grown to loathing. But he had had his lesson of the unwisdom of permitting a pie to start a quarrel.
“Then I’ll look for you—come now, let’s see!” Mrs. Grant wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. “To-day’s Tuesday—um—um! And to-morrow I’ve got to go over to the East Village. Then Thursday’s sewing circle day. But Friday—after your school’s out? You can manage to come over to the farm easy enough—why not?”
“Why—why——”
“Why, of course you can!” cried Mrs. Grant energetically. “But I say!” Her glance went to Varley, who had remained modestly in the background. “Sakes alive, but there’s the other boy! The one that tried and didn’t; but he meant just exactly as well as if he’d known how—you know what I’m talking about, and that’s the time this foolish horse bolted. Bring him with you, too.”