did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good will is
necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was
grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that
she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at
the last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe
as they looked, having been skilfully 'deaconed'.

"Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only
it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,"
thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and
stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before
Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose
tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after
another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,
Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all
his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's one
strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a
pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle,
and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and
everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea
of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some
water hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough,
for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but
he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his
mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of
delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her
napkin, and left the table precipitately.

"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.

"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg with a
tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had
given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes
on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the
refrigerator.