“I couldn’t look around for things,” said Judith, flushing; “I was afraid every minute of intruding. I haven’t looked into places any more than I could help.”
“You are grateful, you lucky dog,” interrupted Roger. “We are as hungry as tramps, Judith; our host stopped at the store and bought sugar cakes and cheese to treat us on, not knowing the feast he was bringing his guest home to.”
Biscuits, molasses cake, ham and eggs and coffee.
Judith’s eyes were demure and satisfied; she had never had such a good time in her life.
“I can get you a table-cloth if it will not be too much trouble to reset the table,” proposed the host as unembarrassed as his visitors could desire.
“Please don’t,” said Judith, “unless for your own convenience.”
“I acknowledge I haven’t seen a table-cloth on my own table since I have been my own housekeeper: but we must have napkins. I cannot do without napkins unless I am camping out.”
Judith was placed at the head of the table, she accepted the position as naturally as she did at the Bensalem parsonage when she was left to be the lady of the house; she poured the delicious coffee, ate her biscuits with a perfect relish, and listened to story, repartee, experiences, plans for work with an appreciation that added zest to the conversation.
“Well, Judith, what do you think of your afternoon?” inquired Roger, when Daisy was trotting the second mile toward home.
“I never had anything like it. I didn’t mind washing the supper dishes with you looking on; but I _did_ mind having him in the kitchen.”
“He couldn’t stay out; it was nuts for him. He’s a first-rate camper, but housekeeping is one too many for him. He is one too many for himself. He wishes to be near the church, so he will not try to find board anywhere.”
“Hasn’t he a sister, or cousin, or somebody?”
“He hasn’t anybody. He wants to bring a family to the parsonage—he might have had one for the summer if he had known he would lose his housekeeper in time. He will make a break and do something. What do you think of him?”
“If I hadn’t seen that dreadful study, and that kitchen—”
“Why, _no_. Did you think I would do that? I felt myself an intruder every minute. You didn’t think I _would_ do that, Roger.”
“If I had met him away—but he is so much a part of that kitchen and study, that I’m afraid I shall not be fair to him. At first he was nothing but big, to me; big and ashamed; then nothing but red beard and eyebrows, and then eyes; his voice is as big as he is. I liked his sermon that other time you exchanged; he is a man in earnest.”