"
Annette promptly accepted, but Sandy declared that he was not hungry.
He went to the window and, pulling back the curtain, stared out into
the night. Was all the rest of life going to be like this? Was that
restless, nervous, intolerable pain going to gnaw at his heart
forever?
Meanwhile the savory odor of the hoe-cakes floated over his shoulder
and bits of the conversation broke in upon him.
"Aw, take two or three and butter 'em while they are hot. Long
sweetening or short?"
"Both," said Annette. "I never tasted anything so g-good. Sandy,
what's the matter with you? I never saw you when you weren't hungry
b-before. Look! Won't you try this s-sizzly one?"
Sandy looked and was lost. He ate with a coming appetite.
The farmer's wife served them with delighted zeal; she made trip after
trip from the stove to the table, pausing frequently to admire her
guests.
"I've had six," said Annette; "do you suppose I'll have time for
another one?"
"Lemme give you _both_ a clean plate and some pie," suggested the
eager housewife.
Sandy looked at her and smiled.
"I'll take the clean plate," he said, "and--and more hoe-cakes."
When the farmer returned, and they rode back to the buggy, Annette
developed a sudden fever of impatience.
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