But Ethelwyn’s voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not well enough to go to town.

CHAPTER VII The Secret

    Such fun to have a secret! 
      To tell one too is fun. 
    But then there is no secret
      That’s known to more than one.

Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes.  But by and by she heard Aunty Stevens calling her.  “Here I am,” she answered, at once sitting up.

“Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?” Ethelwyn rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.

“O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens,” she cried.  “And nobody will hardly ever let me.  I can make the bestest cookies if any one else just makes the dough.  So if you don’t feel just prezactly well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all.”

“Thank you, deary, but I’m feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together.  Let me tie this apron around you.”

Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.

“O isn’t everything about this just too cunning?  Did these used to be Miss Dorothy’s?” said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.

“Here’s your dough, dear.  Now roll it out to fit this little plate.”

This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.

“Now what comes?” said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.

“A thick layer of these apples—­no, just a layer of sugar and flour—­then the crust won’t soak.  Now the apples.  Sugar them well.  Put any of these spices on that you wish.”

“I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate.  I b’lieve I’ll put ’em all in,” said Ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers.

“Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour.  Now roll out your top crust.  Cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water.  There! now it is ready to go in the oven.”

“O isn’t it sweet?” said Ethelwyn.  “Nobody can cook like you, Aunty Stevens.  Nobody.  I think it’s a great—­great appomplishment.”

“Thank you, dear.  Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a little, we’ll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you something.  I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn’t go to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of others.”

“O goody,” said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy.  “Next to cooking, I love to hear secrets.  And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have been thinking about lately?  I have been meaning to ask mother about it.  You know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body.  Well, what do you s’pose,” leaning forward impressively—­“becomes of the bodies the cannibals eat?”