The Brimming Cup

"Those are the Eagle Rocks," explained Marise, sitting down and

motioning them to their places. "Elly dear, don't spread it on your

bread so thick. If Mr. Bayweather were here he could probably tell you

why they are called that. I have known but I've forgotten. There's some

sort of tradition, I believe . . . no, I see you are getting ready to hear

it called the Maiden's Leap where the Indian girl leaped off to escape

an unwelcome lover. But it's not that this time: something or other

about Tories and an American spy . . . ask Mr. Bayweather."

"Heaven forfend!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh.

Marise was amused. "Oh, you've been lectured to on local history, I

see," she surmised.

"I found it very interesting," said Mr. Welles, loyally. "Though

perhaps he does try to give you a little too much at one sitting."

"Mr. Welles," said Paul, with his mouth full, "fishing season begins in

ten days."

Marise decided that she would really have to have a rest from telling

Paul not to talk with food in his mouth, and said nothing.

Mr. Welles confessed that he had never gone fishing in his life, and

asked if Paul would take him.

"Sure!" said Paul. "Mother and I go, lots."

Mr. Marsh looked at Marise inquiringly. "Yes," she said, "I'm a

confirmed fisherman. Some of the earliest and happiest recollections I

have, are of fishing these brooks when I was a little girl."

"Here?" asked Mr. Welles. "I thought you lived in France."

"There's time in a child's life to live in various places," she

explained. "I spent part of my childhood and youth here with my dear old

cousin. The place is full of associations for me. Will you have your

spinach now, or later? It'll keep hot all right if you'd rather wait."

"What is this delicious dish?" asked Mr. Marsh. "It tastes like a man's

version of creamed chicken, which is always a little too lady-like for

me."

"It's a blanquette de veau, and you may be sure I learned to make it

in one of the French incarnations, not a Vermont one."

Paul stirred and asked, "Mother, where is Mark? He'll be late for

school, if he doesn't hurry."

"That's so," she said, and reflected how often one used that phrase in

response to one of Paul's solid and unanswerable statements.

Mark appeared just then and she began to laugh helplessly. His hands

were wetly, pinkly, unnaturally clean, but his round, rosy, sunny little

face was appallingly streaked and black.