He had not been so long out of college but the idea of this irregular supper, when he had once formed it, began to have its fascination. He took up the broad fire-shovel, and, by the time the boy had shuffled to and from the pantry beyond the dining-room, Bartley had cleaned the shovel with a piece of newspaper and was already heating it by the embers which he had raked out from under the pine-root. The boy silently transferred the half-pie he had brought from its plate to the shovel. He pulled up a chair and sat down to watch it. The pie began to steam and send out a savory odor; he himself, in thawing, emitted a stronger and stronger smell of stable. He was not without his disdain for the palate which must have its mince-pie warm at midnight,--nor without his respect for it, either. This fastidious taste must be part of the splendor which showed itself in Mr. Hubbard's city-cut clothes, and in his neck-scarfs and the perfection of his finger-nails and mustache. The boy had felt the original impression of these facts deepened rather than effaced by custom; they were for every day, and not, as he had at first conjectured, for some great occasion only. “You don't suppose, Andy, there is such a thing as cold tea or coffee anywhere, that we could warm up?” asked Bartley, gazing thoughtfully at the pie. The boy shook his head. “Get you some milk,” he said; and, after he had let the dispiriting suggestion sink into the other's mind, he added, “or some water.” “Oh, bring on the milk,” groaned Bartley, but with the relief that a choice of evils affords. The boy stumped away for it, and when he came back the young man had got his pie on the plate again, and had drawn his chair up to the table. “Thanks,” he said, with his mouth full, as the boy set down the goblet of milk. Andy pulled his chair round so as to get an unrestricted view of a man who ate his pie with his fork as easily as another would with a knife. “That sister of yours is a smart girl,” the young man added, making deliberate progress with the pie. The boy made an inarticulate sound of satisfaction, and resolved in his heart to tell her what Mr. Hubbard had said. “She's as smart as time,” continued Bartley. This was something concrete. The boy knew he should remember that comparison. “Bring you anything else?” he asked, admiring the young man's skill in getting the last flakes of the crust on his fork. The pie had now vanished. “Why, there isn't anything else, is there?” Bartley demanded, with the plaintive dismay of a man who fears he has flung away his hunger upon one dish when he might have had something better. “Cheese,” replied the boy. “Oh!” said Bartley. He reflected awhile. “I suppose I could toast a piece on this fork. But there isn't any more milk.” The boy took away the plate and goblet, and brought them again replenished.