"I had mine, thank you. Will you want anything else?"

He could see past her into the kitchen—the corner of a large wood-burning stove and a row of brass pots. The floor was flagstoned and a hand pump stood over a sink.

"Do you really grow your own strawberries?" he asked.

"Yes. Would you like some?"

"Very much."

Mrs. Tilton went to get the berries. She had forgotten to serve cream with the coffee. The coffee had a bitter taste and a faint smell of iodine. But he was not used to natural coffee. And without cream. He took another sip and slowly stretched his stiff legs. In the window he saw lilac bushes in bloom.

"Picked this morning," Mrs. Tilton said, setting a bowl of strawberries before him.

"Oh, thank you." He sniffed at the berries. "They smell of earth," he said, smiling at her.

"You might like a walk after breakfast," Mrs. Tilton suggested. "Then you can have a restful nap at noon."

"Good idea," he said. "Excuse me, but the coffee seems bitter."

Mrs. Tilton looked at the old man as if she did not understand.

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he apologized, "but I take cream with my coffee."

"I'm sorry, I forgot."

She brought a small cream pitcher.

The old man turned the pitcher in his hand. It was lopsided and made of inferior clay "Do you make your own pottery, too?"

"Such as it is."

"Charming." He set down the pitcher and leaned back with a sigh. "You know, I pretended I did not want a rest, but I could hardly wait to see the country again."

"You weren't born in the city?"

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