“Sun-dial,” repeated Betsy.  “What’s that?”

“Why to tell the time by, when—­”

“Why didn’t they have a clock?” asked the child.

Aunt Abigail laughed.  “Good gracious, there was only one clock in the valley for years and years, and that belonged to the Wardons, the rich people in the village.  Everybody had sun-dials cut in their window-sills.  There’s one on the window-sill of our pantry this minute.  Come on, I’ll show it to you.”  She got up heavily with her pan of apples, and trotted briskly, shaking the floor as she went, over to the stove.  “But first just watch me put these on to cook so you’ll know how.”  She set the pan on the stove, poured some water from the tea-kettle over the apples, and put on a cover.  “Now come on into the pantry.”

They entered a sweet-smelling, spicy little room, all white paint, and shelves which were loaded with dishes and boxes and bags and pans of milk and jars of preserves.

“There!” said Aunt Abigail, opening the window.  “That’s not so good as the one at school.  This only tells when noon is.”

Elizabeth Ann stared stupidly at the deep scratch on the window-sill.

“Don’t you see?” said Aunt Abigail.  “When the shadow got to that mark it was noon.  And the rest of the time you guessed by how far it was from the mark.  Let’s see if I can come anywhere near it now.”  She looked at it hard and said:  “I guess it’s half-past four.”  She glanced back into the kitchen at the clock and said:  “Oh pshaw!  It’s ten minutes past five!  Now my grandmother could have told that within five minutes, just by the place of the shadow.  I declare!  Sometimes it seems to me that every time a new piece of machinery comes into the door some of our wits fly out at the window!  Now I couldn’t any more live without matches than I could fly!  And yet they all used to get along all right before they had matches.  Makes me feel foolish to think I’m not smart enough to get along, if I wanted to, without those little snips of pine and brimstone.  Here, Betsy, take a cooky.  It’s against my principles to let a child leave the pantry without having a cooky.  My! it does seem like living again to have a young one around to stuff!”

Betsy took the cooky, but went on with the conversation by exclaiming, “How could any-body get along without matches?  You have to have matches.”

Aunt Abigail didn’t answer at first.  They were back in the kitchen now.  She was looking at the clock again.  “See here,” she said; “it’s time I began getting supper ready.  We divide up on the work.  Ann gets the dinner and I get the supper.  And everybody gets his own breakfast.  Which would you rather do, help Ann with the dinner, or me with the supper?”