"Make it four," he further demanded over the table.
"Indeed and I will," answered Rose Mary delightedly. And as she spoke
she held the loaf against her breast and drew the knife through the
slices in a fascinatingly dangerous manner. At the intentness of his
regard the color rose up under the lashes that veiled her eyes, and
she hugged the loaf closer with her left hand. "Would you like six?"
she asked innocently, as the fourth stroke severed the last piece.
"Just go on and slice it all up," he answered with a laugh. "I'd
rather watch you than eat."
"Wait till I butter these for you and then you can eat--and watch
me--me finish working the butter. Won't that do as well? Think what an
encouragement your interest will be to me! Really, nothing in the
world paces a woman's work like a man looking on, and if he doesn't
stop her she'll drop under the line. Now, you have your bread and
butter and you can sit over there by the door and help me turn off
this ten pounds in no time."
As she had been speaking, Rose Mary had spread two of the slices with
the yellow butter from a huge bowl in front of her, clapped on the
tops of the sandwiches and then, with a smile, handed them in a blue
plate to the man who lounged across the corner of her table. She made
a very gracious and lovely picture, did Rose Mary, in her light-blue
homespun gown against the cool gray depths of the milk-house, which
was fern-lined along the cracks of the old stones and mysterious with
the trickling gurgle of the spring that flowed into the long stone
troughs, around the milk crocks and out under the stone door-sill.
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