"Good morning, Mrs. Cahill. What time is it?"
"It's just past four o'clock in the morning."
"Gracious! I had no idea it was so early as that," exclaimed the
lad.
"If you are not in such a great hurry, stop a bit," urged the
woman, her keen eyes noting certain things that she did not give
voice to. She had known Phil Forrest for many years, and his
parents before him. Furthermore, she knew something of the life
he had led since the death of his parents. "Had your breakfast?"
"Well--"
"Of course you haven't. Come right in and eat with me," urged
the good-hearted widow.
"If you will let me do some chores, or something to pay for it, I
will," agreed Phil hesitatingly.
"Nothing of the kind! You'll keep me company at breakfast; then
you'll be telling me all about it."
"About what?"
" 'Bout your going away," pointing significantly to the bag that
Phil was carrying.
He was ravenously hungry, though he did not realize it fully
until the odor of the widow's savory cooking smote his nostrils.
She watched him eat with keen satisfaction.
"Now tell me what's happened," urged Mrs. Cahill, after he had
finished the meal.
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