Thus the sun sank lower
and lower, the long shadows began to creep into the valleys, and
we came finally toward the end of the field. Suddenly the boy Ben
cried out:
"There's Sis!"
I glanced up and saw standing near the gateway a slim, bright
girl of about twelve in a fresh gingham dress.
"We're coming!" roared Ben, exultantly.
While we were hitching up the horse, the man said to me:
"You'll come down with us and have some supper."
"Indeed I will," I replied, trying not to make my response too
eager.
"Did mother make gingerbread to-day?" I heard the boy whisper
audibly.
"Sh-h--" replied the girl, "who is that man?"
"_I_ don't know" with a great accent of mystery--"and dad don't
know. Did mother make gingerbread?"
"Sh-h--he'll hear you."
"Gee! but he can plant potatoes. He dropped down on us out of a
clear sky."
"What is he?" she asked. "A tramp?"
"Nope, not a tramp. He works. But, Sis, did mother make
gingerbread?"
So we all got into the light wagon and drove briskly out along
the shady country road. The evening was coming on, and the air
was full of the scent of blossoms. We turned finally into a lane
and thus came promptly, for the horse was as eager as we, to the
capacious farmyard. A motherly woman came out from the house,
spoke to her son, and nodded pleasantly to me.
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