"That was mighty good, that dinner," he announced luxuriously, "an'
now I'll have a pipe."
The pungent, fresh odor of the burning tobacco was sweet in the air;
a dreamy content held them quiet.
He did not ask her whence or whither; she had no apologies or
regrets. Two vagabonds from every law of home and duty, they were as
peaceful and unthoughtful of yesterday's bed and to-morrow's meal as
William Thayer, who slept in the sun at their feet.
For long they did not talk. An unspoken comprehension, an essential
comradeship, filled the deep spaces of silence that frighten and
irritate those whom only custom has associated; and Caroline, flat
on her filled stomach, her nose in the grass, was close in thought
and vague well-being to the boy who puffed blue rings toward the
little river, his head on his arms.
"I put the plate into that door in the barn," he said, finally.
"Did you put those silver things back?"
Caroline grunted assent.
"But they wouldn't think that you--what you said," she assured him
earnestly. "It's only tramps they're afraid of."
He glanced quickly over at her, but she was utterly innocent.
"One came to the kitchen once, and asked Mary for some hot tea or
coffee, and she hadn't any, but she said if he was very hungry she'd
give him a piece of bread and butter, and he said to go to hell with
her bread and butter.
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