She wished most heartily that she could have replied, "Oh, no," and explained that that was n't the way of it at all. She felt that her whole story must seem to him an easily concocted, and a merely necessary fiction. But as that was exactly what did happen she had to accept this part of it from him and do her best with other details. She wished he would pay more strict attention. "And so," she finally ended, "as Mr. Brown went away just a while ago to get my horse, I was rather frightened when I heard somebody coming. I suppose I surprised you too." "Well, yes; I must say you did, sort of. But of course when I heard that noise I knew something was bound to come of it. But I managed to save my appetite." "There is n't very much left to eat," she said seriously. "Oh, I 've got a plenty to eat right there in my wagon. Pie is good enough for anybody. I 've got a real Northern pie." He made a trip to the wagon and came back with the pie. He placed the pie in the middle of the repast and arranged knife and fork on their respective sides of it. Having it properly disposed and everything in readiness he invited her to join him. Janet, because she had had supper, was inclined to refuse. But there is something cordial about a pie's countenance, especially if it be a pie of one's own country, and still more especially if one has been living regularly on _frijole_ beans. She cut her regrets short and accepted. It seemed to her, though, that all human companionship was being rather strictly confined to the process of eating. Plainly he considered her the guest; he took her cup and poured the coffee himself. "It is a beautiful evening, is n't it," remarked Janet. "I was just going to say it was a nice night. Quite a flock of stars out." "A flock, did you say?" "Well, sort of. I don't usually speak of them that way. Only on special occasions. Hasn't Steve got any sweetenin'?" He had just rattled the spoon in the sugar bowl and found it empty. Janet was sorry to say that she had poured out the last grain of it that very evening. She explained to him how the lamb had stepped into a bowlful and thus contributed to the present shortage. "Ain't Steve got a jug of molasses? He ought to have some sweetenin' somewheres." "Why, I did see a jug of something under the bed. I don't know what is in it, though." He went to investigate, getting down on the door-sill and entering the shack on his knees. Presently he reappeared, smelling the cork. "It ain't anything more or less than molasses," he reported.