attempted to live upon your fresh biscuits, your frosted cakes, your rich pastry, I should be in my grave.  One of those biscuits which you see there before you is equal in nourishment to six of your indigestible pies, or every cake upon the table.  The great cause of the insanity and dyspepsia so prevalent among the rural classes is rich pie and cake.  I feel it my duty to warn you.  I hope, ladies, that you will consider carefully what I have said.”

With that, Mrs. Jameson withdrew herself a little way and sat down under a tree on a cushion which had been brought in the carryall.  We looked at one another, but we did not say anything for a few minutes.

Finally, Mrs. White, who is very good-natured, remarked that she supposed that she meant well, and she had better put her pies back in the basket or they would dry up.  We all began putting back the things which Mrs. Jameson had taken out, except the broken jumbles, and were very quiet.  However, we could not help feeling astonished and aggrieved at what Mrs. Jameson had said about the insanity and dyspepsia in our village, since we could scarcely remember one case of insanity, and very few of us had to be in the least careful as to what we ate.  Mrs. Peter Jones did say in a whisper that if Mrs. Jameson had had dyspepsia ten years on those hard biscuits it was more than any of us had had on our cake and pie.  We left the biscuits, and the two paper packages which Mrs. Jameson had brought, in a heap on the table just where she had put them.

After we had replaced the baskets we all scattered about, trying to enjoy ourselves in the sweet pine woods, but it was hard work, we were so much disturbed by what had happened.  We wondered uneasily, too, what Flora Clark would say about her jumbles.  We were all quiet, peaceful people who dreaded altercation; it made our hearts beat too fast.  Taking it altogether, we felt very much as if some great, overgrown bird of another species had gotten into our village nest, and we were in the midst of an awful commotion of strange wings and beak.  Still we agreed that Mrs. Jameson had probably meant well.

Grandma Cobb seemed to be enjoying herself.  She was moving about, her novel under her arm and her peppermint box in her hand, holding up her gown daintily in front.  She spoke to everybody affably, and told a number confidentially that her daughter was very delicate about her eating, but she herself believed in eating what you liked.  Harriet and Harry Liscom were still missing, and so were the younger daughter, Sarah, and the boy.  The boy’s name, by the way, was Cobb, his mother’s maiden name.  That seemed strange to us, but it possibly would not have seemed so had it been a prettier name.

Just before lunch-time Cobb and his sister Sarah appeared, and they were in great trouble.  Jonas Green, who owns the farm next the grove, was with them, and actually had Cobb by the hair, holding all his gathered-up curls tight in his fist.  He held Sarah by one arm, too, and she was crying.  Cobb was crying, too, for that matter, and crying out loud like a baby.