by announced that they could sit down, and they were not slow to accept the invitation. The breakfast she served them moved Mr. Magee to remark:
"I want to know where I stand as a judge of character. On the first night I saw Mrs. Quimby, without tasting a morsel of food cooked by her, I said she was the best cook in the county."
The professor looked up from his griddle cakes.
"Why limit it to the county?" he asked. "I should say you were too parsimonious in your judgment."
Mrs. Quimby, detecting in the old man's words a compliment, flushed an even deeper red as she bent above the stove. Under the beign influence of the food and the woman's cheery personality, the spirits of the crowd rose. Baldpate Inn was in the past, its doors locked, its seven keys scattered through the dawn. Mrs. Quimby, as she continued to press food upon them, spoke with interest of the events that had come to pass at the inn.
"It's so seldom anything really happens around here," she said, "I just been hungering for news
