on suit fashioned from a pair of overalls and a woman's
shirtwaist. In search of "Miss M'ri," he looked into the kitchen, the
henhouse, the dairy, and the flower garden. Not finding her in any of
these accustomed places, he stood still in perplexity.
"Miss M'ri!" rang out his youthful, vibrant treble.
There was a note of promise in the pleasant voice that came back in
subterranean response.
"Here, David, in the cellar."
The lad set down the tin pail he was carrying and eagerly sped to the
cellar. His fondest hopes were realized. M'ri Brumble, thirty odd
years of age, blue of eye, slightly gray of hair, and sweet of heart,
was lifting the cover from the ice-cream freezer.
"Well, David Dunne, you came in the nick of time," she said, looking
up with kindly eyes. "It's just frozen. I'll dish you up some now, if
you will run up to the pantry and fetch two saucers--biggest you can
find."
Fleetly David footed the stairs and returned with two soup plates.
"These were the handiest," he explained apologetically as he handed
them to her.
"Just the thing," promptly reassured M'ri, transferring a heaping
ladle of yellow cream to one of the plates. "Easy to eat out of,
too."
"My, but you are giving me a whole lot," he said, watching her
approvingly and encouragingly. "I hope you ain't robbing yourself."
"Oh, no; I always make plenty," she replied, dishing a smaller portion
for herself. "Here's enough for our dinner and some for you to carry
home to your mother."
"I haven't had any since last Fourth of July," he observed in
plaintive reminiscence as they went upstairs.
"Why, David Dunne, how you talk! You just come over here whenever you
feel like eating ice cream, and I'll make you some. It's no trouble."
They sat down on the west, vine-clad porch to enjoy their feast in
leisure and shade. M'ri had never lost her childish appreciation of
the delicacy, and to David the partaking thereof was little short of
ecstasy. He lingered longingly over the repast, and when the soup
plate would admit of no more scraping he came back with a sigh to
sordid cares.
"Mother couldn't get the washing done no-ways to-day. She ain't
feeling well, but you can have the clothes to-morrow, sure. She sent
you some sorghum," pointing to the pail.
M'ri took the donation into the kitchen. When she brought back the
pail it was filled with eggs. Not to send something in return would
have been an unpardonable breach of country etiq
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