"Here, Hattie," Said he, "you taste o' this dried apple. I put a mite
o' lemon in."
Hattie, somehow abashed by the mental impact of the little man, ate her
pie meekly, and thenceforth waived the larger issue. All the same, she
knew the neighbors "pitied father," and that they would continue to
pity him so long as he lived alone in the little peaceful house, doing
his own washing and making his own pie.
To-night was a duplication of many another when Nicholas Oldfield had
turned the corner and come in sight of his own home; but often as it
had been repeated, the experience was never the same. Some would have
named his springing emotion delight; but it neither quickened his pace
nor made him draw his breath the faster. Perhaps he even walked a
little more slowly, to enjoy the taste, for he was a saving man. There
was the little house, white as paint could make it, and snug in
bowering foliage. He noted, with an approving eye, that the dahlias in
the front yard, set in stiff nodding rows, were holding their own
bravely against the dry fall weather, and that the asters were blooming
profusely, purple and pink. A rare softness came over his features when
he stepped into the yard; and though he examined the roof critically in
passing, it was with the eye of love.
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