Miss Delaware, with great suavity of manner, examining her memorandum-book:  “I suppose it wouldn’t be shocking your delicate feelings too much to inform you that the canned lobster and oysters you sent us yesterday wasn’t fit for hogs?”

Sparrell (blandly):  “They weren’t intended for them, Miss Piper.  If we had known you were having company over from Red Gulch to dinner, we might have provided something more suitable for them.  We have a fair quality of oil-cake and corn-cobs in stock, at reduced figures.  But the canned provisions were for your own family.”

Miss Delaware (secretly pleased at this sarcastic allusion to her sister’s friends, but concealing her delight):  “I admire to hear you talk that way, Mr. Sparrell; it’s better than minstrels or a circus.  I suppose you get it outer that book,” indicating the concealed volume.  “What do you call it?”

Sparrell (politely):  “The First Principles of Geology.”

Miss Delaware, leaning sideways and curling her little fingers around her pink ear:  “Did you say the first principles of ‘geology’ or ‘politeness’?  You know I am so deaf; but, of course, it couldn’t be that.”

Sparrell (easily):  “Oh no, you seem to have that in your hand”—­pointing to Miss Delaware’s memorandum-book—­“you were quoting from it when you came in.”

Miss Delaware, after an affected silence of deep resignation:  “Well! it’s too bad folks can’t just spend their lives listenin’ to such elegant talk; I’d admire to do nothing else!  But there’s my family up at Cottonwood—­and they must eat.  They’re that low that they expect me to waste my time getting food for ’em here, instead of drinking in the First Principles of the Grocery.”

“Geology,” suggested Sparrell blandly.  “The history of rock formation.”

“Geology,” accepted Miss Delaware apologetically; “the history of rocks, which is so necessary for knowing just how much sand you can put in the sugar.  So I reckon I’ll leave my list here, and you can have the things toted to Cottonwood when you’ve got through with your First Principles.”

She tore out a list of her commissions from a page of her memorandum-book, leaped lightly from the counter, threw her brown braid from her left shoulder to its proper place down her back, shook out her skirts deliberately, and saying, “Thank you for a most improvin’ afternoon, Mr. Sparrell,” sailed demurely out of the store.

A few auditors of this narrative thought it inconsistent that a daughter of Judge Piper and a sister of the angelic host should put up with a mere clerk’s familiarity, but it was pointed out that “she gave him as good as he sent,” and the story was generally credited.  But certainly no one ever dreamed that it pointed to any more precious confidences between them.

I think the secret burst upon the family, with other things, at the big picnic at Reservoir Canyon.  This festivity had been arranged for weeks previously, and was undertaken chiefly by the “Red Gulch Contingent,” as we were called, as a slight return to the Piper family for their frequent hospitality.  The Piper sisters were expected to bring nothing but their own personal graces and attend to the ministration of such viands and delicacies as the boys had profusely supplied.