m 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. There was no especial introduction. I said merely, "My name is
Grayson," and I was accepted without a word.

I waited to help the man, whose name I had now learned--it was
Stanley--with his horse and wagon, and then we came up to the house.
Near the back door there was a pump, with a bench and basin set just
within a little cleanly swept, open shed. Rolling back my collar and
baring my arms I washed myself in the cool water, dashing it over my
head until I gasped, and then stepping back, breathless and refreshed,
I found the slim girl, Mary, at my elbow with a clean soft towel. As
I stood wiping quietly I could smell the ambrosial odours from the
kitchen. In all my life I never enjoyed a moment more than that, I
think.

"Come in now," said the motherly Mrs. Stanley.

So we filed into the roomy kitchen, where an older girl, called Kate,
was flying about placing steaming dishes upon the table. There was also
an older son, who had been at the farm chores. It was altogether a fine,
vigorous, independent American family. So we all sat down and drew up
our chairs. Then we paused a moment, and the father, bowing his head,
said in a low voice:

"For all Thy good gifts, Lord, we thank Thee. Preserve us and keep us
through another night."

I suppose it was a very ordinary farm meal, but it seems to me I never
tasted a better one. The huge piles of new baked bread, the sweet farm
butter, already deliciou