the disposal of the crumbs over on to
the grass, and filled both pairs of hands with the crisp discs. Eliza
spread the end of her short blue calico skirt over Martin Luther's
chubby knees, and they both proceeded to eat into the improvised napkin
with the utmost comradeship. Miss Wingate had strolled down to the gate
with the Deacon and had paused on the way to decorate the buttonhole of
his shiny old coat with a bit of the white lilac nodding over the wall.

"'Liza, child," said Mother as she glanced at Martin Luther with a
contemplative eye, "when you're done eating run over and ask your Maw
to send me a pair of Billy's britches and a shirt. No, maybe young Ez's
'll be better, and bring 'em and Martin Luther on back to the kitchen
to me." With which she disappeared into the house, leaving the munchers
to finish their feast alone.

And in an incredibly short time the last crumb, even those rescued from
the skirt, had disappeared and Eliza had led Martin Luther down the
walk, across the Road and around the corner of the Pike cottage, while
the Deacon still lingered talking to Miss Wingate at the gate. Eliza
had taken upon herself, with her usual generalship, the development of
Mother Mayberry's plan for the arraying of the young stranger in what
Providence would consider a civilized garb.

And for some minutes Miss Wingate stood leaning over the top rail of
the low gate idly watching a group of Pratts, Turners, Mosbeys, Hoovers
and Pikes playing a mysterious game, which necessitated wild dashes
across a line drawn down the middle of the Road in the white dust,
shrill cries of capture and frequent change of base. The day had been a
long sunshiny one, full of absorbing interests, and as she stood
drinking in the perfume from a spray of lilac she had broken to choose
the bit for the Deacon, she suddenly realized that not one minute had
she found in which to let the horrible dread creep close and clutch at
her throat. Helping along in the construction of a bucket of tea-cakes,
the printing of four cakes of butter, the simmering of a large pan of
horehound syrup and the excitement of pouring it into the family
bottles that Mother was filling against a sudden night call from some
crouper down or across the Road, to say nothing of a most exciting pie,
that had been concocted entirely by herself from a jar of peaches and
frilled around with the utmost regard for its artistic appearance, to
which could be added the triumph of