"Shad and corn-pone, Jim George," she interrupted. "I want you to show this gentleman we can still cook in the South." "Ah'll show him. Ah'll show him, Miss Betty. Rufe! Rufe! Come hyah and take Miss Betty's hoss." A boy led the mare away, and Fessenden and the girl established themselves in a hammock under a solitary oak at the bluff's edge. He drew a long breath of the salt air and smiled at his companion. "This is Paradise, and not even a serpent to mar it." In an incredibly short time Jim George appeared, bearing a tray piled high with eatables, and proceeded to spread the cloth on a table under the oak. "Miss Betty," he said, "and, gemman, sah, there's a shad-roe as _is_ a shad-roe. Jes' yo' eat it with all the buttah yo' kin spread on it. This hyah co'n-pone needs a _spoon_ for _it_. Them baked 'taters growed theirselfs right hyah in the patch behint the house. They's as sweet as honey. And hyah's some milk. Yo' 'member Jersey Molly, Miss Betty? Yas'm, this is _her_ milk. None o' yo' _pastorilized_ stuff neither--this is jes' plain _milk_." "Betty," said Fessenden, when Jim George had left them to themselves, "allow me to drink your health in Jersey Molly wine." [Illustration: "BETTY, ALLOW ME TO DRINK YOUR HEALTH IN JERSEY MOLLY WINE"] She touched her tumbler laughingly to his. "Skoal! Bob White, do you know it was only the day before yesterday you picked me out of the brook?" "I was just thinking of that. At any rate, we're better acquainted than people ordinarily are in months." "In three days?" "Certainly," he maintained. "You're a very funny man." "I'm perfectly serious." "I was wondering why you should care to come on a picnic with me. I'm only a country girl, after all, and you--you're different." "I care to come because _you_ are _you_, and that's plenty reason enough." "Hum-m." "Can you say as much?" "I'm not sure." "Cruel child!" "I didn't say no--I only said I wasn't sure." The afternoon slipped away, and at last they ordered their equipage for the homeward drive. Old Jim George bowed them off. "Good-by, Miss Betty. Good-by, gemman, sah. Ah hope yo' bofe come hyah agin right soon--yas, indeedy, and I hope yo' come togedder, too. Yah ha!" He screened his mouth behind his hand and added in a stage whisper: "Miss Betty, that's a mighty fine gemman yo's got, he is so, mighty fine." They pursued the even tenor of their way homeward. The early butterflies flicked the gray mare's nose. Blackbirds pilfered a meal from the plowed fields beside the road. Once a thrush--to Betty's infinite delight--perched on the dashboard and sang a hasty trill. "Spring is lovely," declared Betty. "Lovely," agreed Fessenden with enthusiasm, and did not feel guilty of a commonplace. Into the calm of their content came the clatter of distant hoofs. "There's some one riding down that crossroad there," said Betty. "A woman. Is she waving at us, do you think?"