Marise was struck by a hospitable inspiration. "You and Elly go on
setting the table," she told the children, and ran across the side-yard
to the hedge. She leaned over this, calling, "Mr. Welles! Mr. Welles!"
and when he came to the door, "The children and I are just celebrating
this first really warm day by having lunch out of doors. Won't you and
Mr. Marsh come and join us?"

By the time the explanations and protestations and renewals of the
invitation were over and she brought them back to the porch, Paul and
Elly had almost finished setting the table. Elly nodded a
country-child's silent greeting to the newcomers. Paul said, "Oh goody!
Mr. Welles, you sit by me."

Marise was pleased at the friendship growing up between the gentle old
man and her little boy.

"Elly, don't you want me to sit by you?" asked Marsh with a playful
accent.

Elly looked down at the plate she was setting on the table. "If you want
to," she said neutrally.

Her mother smiled inwardly. How amusingly Elly had acquired as only a
child could acquire an accent, the exact astringent, controlled brevity
of the mountain idiom.

"I think Elly means that she would like it very much, Mr. Marsh," she
said laughingly. "You'll soon learn to translate Vermontese into
ordinary talk, if you stay on here."