Joe returned to Amesville at a little before three on Sunday afternoon. He had meant to get back much earlier, but several things had prevented. In the first place, he had unintentionally taken advantage of the privilege of late slumber afforded by the quiet hotel and had not awakened until after eight o’clock, a most unusual proceeding for Joe! But, late as he had been, he had dressed and was reading a morning newspaper before Mr. Graham appeared. Breakfast was a leisurely ceremony and a surprisingly pleasant one. Joe had never seen anyone pay so much attention to the ordering of a meal as the writer did, and when it came it was quite unlike any breakfast Joe had ever partaken of. Strawberries were served with the stems on, a half-dozen big, luscious ones arranged in a circle about a pyramid of powdered sugar. Joe waited, at a loss as to how to proceed, until Mr. Graham had shown the way by lifting a berry by its stem, dipping it in the sugar and transferring it to his mouth. His host, without appearing to observe Joe’s hesitation, explained that strawberries eaten in that way were far easier to digest than when accompanied by cream. Then had arrived, after finger-bowls, two half chickens, broiled and laid on toast, Julienne potatoes――only Joe called them “shoestring”――tiny crisp, crescent-shaped rolls, orange marmalade, coffee――this, too, without cream, fashioned on the table in some bewildering way with boiled milk and a tiny pat of sweet butter!――and, last but by no means least, golden-brown griddle-cakes served with honey. That had been a wonderful breakfast, indeed, and Joe had eaten until he felt ashamed of himself, but without, since they spent all of an hour at the table with the June sunshine lying across the white napery and glistening on the silver, any after discomfort. Later, when Joe had spoken of a ten o’clock train, Mr. Graham vetoed the plan at once, lightly but firmly, and they had taken a long walk, during which the writer, who seemed to know everything in the city worth seeing and the shortest way to reach it, had made Joe work his shorter legs to the utmost to keep up with his companion’s giant strides! At the station Mr. Graham had gone to the news-stand and doubtless vastly surprised the attendant by selecting four books from the pen of Westley Graham. From there they went to the ledge outside the ticket office and Mr. Graham wrote Joe’s name and his own on the fly-leaf of each and then piled them into the boy’s arms. After that, in spite of Joe’s earnest protests, he had bought the latter’s ticket and parlour car seat. “You can get some lunch at Toledo,” said Mr. Graham. “You’ll have twenty minutes there.” “I shan’t ever want to eat again,” replied Joe with a wistful recollection of that breakfast.