"Well then," said Cyn, "here is a chair for you, Mr. Stanwood. It's all right, so you need not look before sitting. Luckily you are taller than we, and need no books to raise you. Now the question is, what shall we give you to eat from? Ah! here is the bread plate! Nat, can't you find another wooden cover? No? Then spread a piece of brown paper over 'Scribner's.' How fortunate we have an extra knife and fork; you don't mind their being oyster forks? I thought not! Nat and I will use the same spoon, so you can have a whole one. Nat, you and I will have to drink from that cracked tumbler."
"Allow me," interrupted Mr. Stanwood. "Do you know," solemnly, "a cracked tumbler is and always was the height of my ambition."
"Well then, we are all right!" said the jovial Cyn. "But I fear," she added, helping to steak, "if Quimby comes before we finish, he will have to go foraging for his own dishes!"
Mr. Stanwood was praising the steak, which he certainly ate as if the admiration was genuine, when a timid rap announced Quimby's reappearance on the scene. In complete change of raiment, smelling like a field of new-mown hay, and figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes, he entered.
"I—I beg pardon," he said, looking not at those
