"Yes. It is measuring-up day. I've been toddling through the drifts and
sliding down chiflons"--he looked ruefully at the backs of his trousers
legs--"ever since seven o'clock this morning. Haven't had time to eat any
luncheon yet, you see." He took from another pocket a small package folded
in a coarse napkin. "I came here to satisfy the pangs of hunger and enjoy
the beauties of nature at the same time,--such nature as we have here. Will
you excuse me, Miss Newell? I'll promise to eat very fast."

"I'll excuse you if you will not ask me to eat with you."

"Oh, I've entirely too much consideration for myself to think of such a
thing; there isn't enough for two."

He seated himself, with a little sigh, and opened the napkin on the ground
before him. Miss Newell stood leaning against a rock on the opposite side
of the brook, regarding the young man with a shy and smiling curiosity.
"Meals," he continued, "are a reckless tribute to the weakness of the flesh
we all engage in three times a day at the boarding-house; a man must eat,
you know, if he expects to live. Have you ever tried any of Mrs. Bondy's
fare, Miss Newell?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Bondy tries to have everything very nice," the young girl
replied, with some embarrassment.

"Of course she does; she is a very good old girl. I think a great deal of
Mrs. Bondy; but when she asks me if I have enjoyed my dinner, I always make
a point of telling her the truth; she respects me for it. This is her idea
of sponge cake, you see." He held up admiringly a damp slab of some compact
pale-yellow substance, with crumbs of bread adhering to one side. "It is a
little mashed, but otherwise a fair specimen."