The young man was sitting on the grass, his head against the tree;
his eyes brightened as she approached.
"Have any luck?" he inquired.
She held out the plate, and, as he took it, fumbled in her pocket
for the fork.
"It's all cold," she murmured apologetically, "but I knew Maggie'd
never warm it. Do you mind?"
"Not a bit," he answered, with a whimsical glance at her eagerness
to serve him. "I always _did_ like greens," he added, as he accepted
the fork and attacked the spinach.
"Here, William Thayer!"
He handed one of the chops to the dog, and stared as Caroline drew
out the salt-cellar.
"Did you--well, by--that's pretty kind, now!"
"Potatoes are so nasty without it," she explained.
"Yes, that's why I don't us'ally eat 'em," he replied.
There was a moment's silence, while he ate with the frank morning
appetite of twenty, and Caroline watched him, her sympathetic jaws
moving with his, her eyes shining with hospitality.
"Nice place you've got here," he suggested, breaking a roll.
"Yes. I _wish_ I'd brought you some butter, but I didn't dare cut
any off; it was in a jar, and it clatters so. ("Oh, that's all
right!") This is nicer than it used to be out here. It _was_ the
chicken-yard, and ashes and things got put here; but nobody keeps
chickens any more, and this is all new grass.
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