"In the kitchen, cannin' blackberries," said little Henry.

As Amanda rounded the corner of the house, the two children clinging to
her arm, Mrs. Landis came to the kitchen door.

"Mother of my knight, I salute you," said Amanda, making as low a bow
as the two barnacle children, the bouquet and the basket with its crock
of apple butter, would allow.

"What," laughed Mrs. Landis. "Now what was that you said? The children
make so much noise I can't hear sometimes. Henry, don't hang so on
Amanda's arm, it's too hot."

"I said--why, I said--I have some apple butter for you that Mom sent
and I picked a bouquet for you," the child replied, her courage
suddenly gone from her.

"Now, ain't that nice! Come right in." The woman held the screen door
open for the visitor.

Mrs. Landis, mother of the imaginary knight and of six other children,
was a sturdy, well-built woman, genial and good-natured, as stout
people are reputed to be. In spite of hard work she retained a look of
youthfulness about her which her plain Mennonite dress and white cap
accentuated. An artist with an appreciative eye might have said that
the face of that mother was like a composite picture of all the
Madonnas of the old masters--tender, love-lighted yet far-seeing and
reverent.