“It’s all Peter’s fault,”
said Felicity. “I do think he might have
had more sense than to take a clock striking for a
bell ringing.”
“I never heard that kind of a strike before,”
protested Peter. “It don’t sound
a bit like other clocks. And the door was shut
and the sound kind o’ muffled. It’s
all very fine to say you would have known what it
was, but I don’t believe you would.”
“I wouldn’t have,” said the Story
Girl honestly. “I thought it was
a bell when I heard it, and the door open, too.
Let us be fair, Felicity.”
“I’m dreadful tired,” sighed Cecily.
We were all “dreadful tired,” for this
was the third night of late hours and nerve racking
strain. But it was over two hours since we had
eaten the cookies, and Felicity suggested that a saucerful
apiece of raspberries and cream would not be hard to
take. It was not, for any one but Cecily, who
couldn’t swallow a mouthful.
“I’m glad father and mother will be back
to-morrow night,” she said. “It’s
too exciting when they’re away. That’s
my opinion.”
Felicity was cumbered with many cares the next morning.
For one thing, the whole house must be put in apple
pie order; and for another, an elaborate supper must
be prepared for the expected return of the travellers
that night. Felicity devoted her whole attention
to this, and left the secondary preparation of the
regular meals to Cecily and the Story Girl. It
was agreed that the latter was to make a cornmeal
pudding for dinner.
In spite of her disaster with the bread, the Story
Girl had been taking cooking lessons from Felicity
all the week, and getting on tolerably well, although,
mindful of her former mistake, she never ventured
on anything without Felicity’s approval.
But Felicity had no time to oversee her this morning.
“You must attend to the pudding yourself,”
she said. “The recipe’s so plain
and simple even you can’t go astray, and if
there’s anything you don’t understand you
can ask me. But don’t bother me if you
can help it.”
The Story Girl did not bother her once. The
pudding was concocted and baked, as the Story Girl
proudly informed us when we came to the dinner-table,
all on her own hook. She was very proud of it;
and certainly as far as appearance went it justified
her triumph. The slices were smooth and golden;
and, smothered in the luscious maple sugar sauce which
Cecily had compounded, were very fair to view.
Nevertheless, although none of us, not even Uncle
Roger or Felicity, said a word at the time, for fear
of hurting the Story Girl’s feelings, the pudding
did not taste exactly as it should. It was tough—decidedly
tough—and lacked the richness of flavour
which was customary in Aunt Janet’s cornmeal
puddings. If it had not been for the abundant
supply of sauce it would have been very dry eating
indeed. Eaten it was, however, to the last crumb.
If it were not just what a cornmeal pudding might
be, the rest of the bill of fare had been extra good
and our appetites matched it.
