“Um-hum,” asseverated her father gravely.  “See—­this is the way it’s done.”

He cupped his hands and took a draught from the spring, pretending to chew it as it went down.  “You take a big drink of nice cold water; then draw up your belt as tight as you can—­and say your prayers.”

To his surprise his small daughter only sniffed scornfully.

“Oh, shucks, Daddy!  I know a better way than that.  Susan an’ me used to do it all the time while you were away.”

“What did you do?” he asked curiously, for he had forgotten that more than half the childish play world is the world of “make believe.’”

“Why, we—­we just ‘let on,’” she answered, with simple naivete.  “Sit down an’ I’ll show you how.”

He sat down obediently, but not before he had picked up an old tin can from nearby and set it carefully between them.

“This rock is our table—­the moss is the table cloth.  Oh, it isn’t green,” she cried as he looked down in serious doubt.  “You must help me make believe.  Now—­doesn’t it look nice and white?”

“It does, indeed.  I can see nothing but snowy linen of the finest texture,” he responded instantly.

“That’s better,” complimented his hostess.  And then with a grand air—­

“I’m so glad you dropped in, sir—­an’ just at supper time.  Pass your plate an’ allow me to help you to some batter bread.”

“Batter bread!  Ah, just what I was hoping for,” her guest replied, thankfully extending his plate for the imaginary feast.

“Thank you.  Delicious.  The very best I’ve tasted for a year.  Did you make it yourself?”

“Oh, dear, no—­the cook.”

“Ah, of course!  Pray pardon me, I might have known.”

The little hostess inclined her head.  “Take plenty of butter.  ’Cause batter bread isn’t good ’thout butter.”

“Thank you—­what lovely golden butter.  And—­goodness gracious!  What is this I see before me?  Can this really be a sausage?”

“Yes, sir,” laughed Virgie with delight.  “And there’s the ham.  I smoked it myself over hick’ry wood.  Please help yourself.”

She pretended to arrange a cup and saucer in front of her and held daintily in her fingers a pair of imaginary sugar tongs.

“Coffee?  How many lumps?  And do you take cream?”

“Five, please—­and a little cream.  There—­just right.”

She passed the cup gracefully and added a little moue of concern for the efficiency of her menage.

“I’m afraid you won’t find it very hot,” said this surprising young hostess.  “That butler of mine is growing absolutely wuthless.”

“Then perhaps we can have something better,” her guest responded readily, and he picked up the battered old tin can.  “Permit me, Miss Cary, to offer you a glass of fine old blackberry wine which I carefully brought with me to your beautiful home.  It has been in my family wine cellars since 1838.