e to do that. They are so lovely
and look so happy in this beautiful garden, I'd hate to. We shall be
going, I'm told, and they'll only be ruined for nothing. But, if you
please, I'd like to sit down on these steps and enjoy them. Wouldn't
you, Molly? While your father talks with Mrs. Cook."

The steps belonged to a sort of lean-to, or outdoor kitchen. The little
addition was covered with vines in leaf and more sweet-peas clambered
about its base. Behind it was the living-room with its open door and
table already set for dinner. A savory odor issued thence and set the
girls to thinking how remarkably hungry they were, despite their late
and substantial breakfast. Also, to wondering if Nova Scotia air was to
whet their appetites this way all the time.

Thought Molly, in especial: "If it is I shall buy me a little bag to
wear at my waist, as Auntie does, and fill it with crackers."

Then, thinking of food, she "pricked up her ears," hearing her hostess
inviting:

"But, Judge Breckenridge, I would take it the highest honor if you would
share our dinner with us. Of course, it isn't what I'd have liked to
have, had I known. But my husband used to say, 'Welcome is the best
sauce.' Besides, if you're to leave so soon I'll be glad to talk over
that matter of which I just spoke. I am really so perplexed as to what
is best. You've been so kind to my brother-in-law, Ephraim, that--"

She interrupted herself to laugh and observe:

"Yet that's presumptuous of me, too. The fact that you've been a kind
adviser to one of the family doesn't form a precedent for all the rest
of us. But, business aside, cannot you and your daughters join us?"

"Thank you. We will be most happy; though I must set you right on that
point--of relationship. One is my daughter, the blonde, not the
flower-lover; and one is my temporarily 'adopted.' Molly and Dolly their
names; and two dearer little maids you'll travel far to find."

"Aye, they're fair bonny, and so unlike. Now, sit you down, please,
while I dish up; and tell me, if you will, how does the man, Ephraim? He
was ever in fear of his health but a better one never lived. After my
sister died--the pair of us married brothers--he grew lost and finical.
Nought we could do for him just suited the man. It was the grief, I
knew. So, after he'd mumbled along more years than he'd ought, fending
for himself, he crossed over to the States and drifted south to Richmond
and you. 'Twas a sad pity he'd neit