"Good," says the man. "Now we understand each other. If mademoiselle will excuse me, we will set the coffee on its way." I set and waited, thinking how funny it was for a man to make the coffee. All Pa ever done in his life to help about the cooking was to clean the fish. I went and played with a kitten, so's not to have to talk to Joe. I didn't know what I might say to him. When I come back the table was laid with a nice clean cloth and napkins that were ironed good and dishes with little flowers on. When the woman come out to the well, I ask' her if I could pick some phlox for the table. She laughed and said yes, if I wanted to. So I got some, all pink. I was just bringing it when the man come back. "Stand there, just for a minute," he says. I done like he told me, by the door of the arbor. I thought he was going to say something nice, and I hoped I'd think of something smart and sassy to say back to him. But all he says was just: "Thank you. Now, come and sit down, please." We fixed the flowers. Then Joe brought a basket of beautiful peaches, and we took what we wanted. The man took one, and sat touching it with the tips of his fingers, and he looked over at me with a nice smile. "And now, my child," he says, "tell me your name." I always hate to tell folks my name. In the village they've always made fun of it. "What do you want to bother with that for?" I says. "Ain't I good enough without a tag?" He spoke almost sharp. "I want you to tell me your name," he says. [Illustration: "I want you to tell me your name," he said] So I told him. "Cosma Wakely," I says. He looked funny. "Really?" he says. "_Cosma?_" "But everybody calls me 'Cossy,'" I says quick. "I know what a funny name it is. My grandmother named me. She was queer." "_Cossy!_" he says over. "Why, Cosma is perfect." "You're kiddin' me," I says. "Don't you think I don't know it." He didn't say he wasn't. "Ain't you going to tell me your name?" I says. "Not that I s'pose you'll tell me the right one. They never do." "My name," he says, "is John Ember." "On the square?" I asked him. "Yes," he says. He was a funny man. He didn't have a bit of come-back. He took you just plain. He reminded me of the way I acted with Luke. But usually I could jolly like the dickens. "You travel, I guess," I says. "What do you travel for?" He laughed. "If I understand you," he said, "you are asking me what my line is?" I nodded. I'd just put the pit in my mouth, so I couldn't guess something sassy, like pickles. "I have no line," he says. "It's an area." "Huh?" I says--on account of the pit. "I travel," says he, "for the human race. But they don't know it." "Sure," I says, when I had it swallowed, "you got to sell to everybody, I know that. But what do you sell 'em?" He shook his head. "I don't sell it," he says. "They won't buy it. I shall always be a philanthropist. The commodity," says he, "is books."