It was such a wonderful day; it was such an unusual and delicious
feast. Plump brook trout, fresh from icy water, delicately
broiled over searing wood coals, are the finest of food. Through
the meal to the point where Donald lay on his back at the far
curve of the canyon wall, nibbling a piece of cactus candy,
everything had been perfect. Nine months would be a long time to
be gone, but Linda would wait for him, and she would write to
him.
He raised his head on his elbow and called across to her: "Say,
Linda, how often will you write to me?"
Linda answered promptly: "Every Saturday night. Saturday is our
day. I'll tell you what has happened all the week. I'll tell
you specially what a darned unprofitable day Saturday is when
you're three thousand miles away."
Bending over the canyon fireplace, her face red with heat and
exertion, Katherine O'Donovan caught up her poker and beat up the
fire until the ashes flew.
"Easy, Katy, easy," cautioned Linda. "We may want to bury those
coals and resurrect them to warm up what is left for supper."
"We'll do no such thing," said Katy promptly. "What remains goes
to feed the fish. Next time it's hungry ye are, we're goin' to
hit it straight to Lilac Valley and fill ourselves with God's own
bread and beefsteak and paraties. Don't ye think we're goin' to
be atin' these haythen messes twice in one day."
To herself she was saying: "The sooner I get you home to Pater
Morrison, missy, the better I'll be satisfied.
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