Mr. Peterkin appeared coming down the slope of the hill behind the house, very cheerful. He had made the tour of the farm, and found it in admirable order. Elizabeth Eliza felt it time to ask Martha about the next meal, and ventured to call it supper, as a sort of compromise between dinner and tea. If dinner were expected she might offend by taking it for granted that it was to be “tea,” and if they were unused to a late dinner they might be disturbed if they had only provided a “tea.” So she asked what was the usual hour for supper, and was surprised when Martha replied, “The lady must say,” nodding to Mrs. Peterkin. “She can have it just when she wants, and just what she wants!” This was an unexpected courtesy. Elizabeth Eliza asked when the others had their supper. “Oh, they took it a long time ago,” Martha answered. “If the lady will go out into the kitchen she can tell what she wants.” “Bring us in what you have,” said Mr. Peterkin, himself quite hungry. “If you could cook us a fresh slice of beefsteak that would be well.” “Perhaps some eggs,” murmured Mrs. Peterkin. “Scrambled,” cried one of the little boys. “Fried potatoes would not be bad,” suggested Agamemnon. “Couldn’t we have some onions?” asked the little boy who had stayed at home, and had noticed the odor of onions when the others had their supper. “A pie would come in well,” said Solomon John. “And some stewed cherries,” said the other little boy. Martha fell to laying the table, and the family was much pleased, when, in the course of time, all the dishes they had recommended appeared. Their appetites were admirable, and they pronounced the food the same. “This is true Arab hospitality,” said Mr. Peterkin, as he cut his juicy beefsteak. “I know it,” said Elizabeth Eliza, whose spirits began to rise. “We have not even seen the host and hostess.” She would, indeed, have been glad to find some one to tell her when the Sylvesters were expected, and why they had not arrived. Her room was in the wing, far from that of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, and near the aged deaf and foreign ladies, and she was kept awake for some time by perplexed thoughts. She was sure the lady from Philadelphia, under such circumstances, would have written to somebody. But ought she to write to Ann Maria or the Sylvesters? And, if she did write, which had she better write to? She fully determined to write, the first thing in the morning, to both parties. But how should she address her letters? Would there be any use in sending to the Sylvesters’ usual address, which she knew well by this time, merely to say they had not come? Of course the Sylvesters would know they had not come. It would be the same with Ann Maria.