“And you’re at Harvard?  I’m so interested!  My own boy will be going there soon.”

“Well, there’s no place like Harvard,” said Jeff.  “I’m in my Sophomore year now.”

“Oh, a Sophomore!  Fancy!” cried Mrs. Vostrand, as if nothing could give her more pleasure.  “My son is going to prepare at St. Mark’s.  Did you prepare there?”

“No, I prepared at Lovewell Academy, over here.”  Jeff nodded in a southerly direction.

“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Vostrand, as if she knew where Lovewell was, and instantly recognized the name of the ancient school.

They had reached the dining room, and Jeff pushed the screen-door open with one hand, and followed the ladies in.  He had the effect of welcoming them like invited guests; he placed the ladies himself at a window, where he said Mrs. Vostrand would be out of the draughts, and they could have a good view of Lion’s Head.

He leaned over between them, when they were seated, to get sight of the mountain, and, “There!” he said.  “That cloud’s gone at last.”  Then, as if it would be modester in the proprietor of the view to leave them to their flattering raptures in it, he moved away and stood talking a moment with Cynthia Whitwell near the door of the serving-room.  He talked gayly, with many tosses of the head and turns about, while she listened with a vague smile, motionlessly.

“She’s very pretty,” said Miss Vostrand to her mother.

“Yes.  The New England type,” murmured the mother.

“They all have the same look, a good deal,” said the girl, glancing over the room where the waitresses stood ranged against the wall with their hands folded at their waists.  “They have better faces than figures, but she is beautiful every way.  Do you suppose they are all schoolteachers?  They look intellectual.  Or is it their glasses?”

“I don’t know,” said the mother.  “They used to be; but things change here so rapidly it may all be different.  Do you like it?”

“I think it’s charming here,” said the younger lady, evasively.  “Everything is so exquisitely clean.  And the food is very good.  Is this corn-bread—­that you’ve told me about so much?”

“Yes, this is corn-bread.  You will have to get accustomed to it.”

“Perhaps it won’t take long.  I could fancy that girl knowing about everything.  Don’t you like her looks?”

“Oh, very much.”  Mrs. Vostrand turned for another glance at Cynthia.

“What say?” Their smiling waitress came forward from the wall where she was leaning, as if she thought they had spoken to her.

“Oh, we were speaking—­the young lady to whom Mr. Durgin was talking—­she is—­”

“She’s the housekeeper—­Miss Whitwell.”

“Oh, indeed!  She seems so young—­”

“I guess she knows what to do-o-o,” the waitress chanted.  “We think she’s about ri-i-ght.”  She smiled tolerantly upon the misgiving of the stranger, if it was that, and then retreated when the mother and daughter began talking together again.