Eliza spread the end of her short blue calico skirt over Martin
Luther's chubby knees, and they both proceeded to eat into the
improvised napkin with the utmost comradeship. Miss Wingate had
strolled down to the gate with the Deacon and had paused on the way
to decorate the buttonhole of his shiny old coat with a bit of the
white lilac nodding over the wall.

"'Liza, child," said Mother as she glanced at Martin Luther with a
contemplative eye, "when you're done eating run over and ask your
Maw to send me a pair of Billy's britches and a shirt. No, maybe
young Ez's 'll be better, and bring 'em and Martin Luther on back to
the kitchen to me." With which she disappeared into the house,
leaving the munchers to finish their feast alone.

And in an incredibly short time the last crumb, even those rescued
from the skirt, had disappeared and Eliza had led Martin Luther down
the walk, across the Road and around the corner of the Pike cottage,
while the Deacon still lingered talking to Miss Wingate at the gate.
Eliza had taken upon herself, with her usual generalship, the
development of Mother Mayberry's plan for the arraying of the young
stranger in what Providence would consider a civilized garb.

And for some minutes Miss Wingate stood leaning over the top rail of
the low gate idly watching a group of Pratts, Turners, Mosbeys,
Hoovers and Pikes playing a mysterious game, which necessitated wild
dashes across a line drawn down the middle of the Road in the white
dust, shrill cries of capture and frequent change of base. The day
had been a long sunshiny one, full of absorbing interests, and as
she stood drinking in the perfume from a spray of lilac she had
broken to choose the bit for the Deacon, she suddenly realized that