g as dinner in the world!" cried
Charlotte, and was hurrying to the door when Celia called her back.
"_Please_ wash that smudge off your face," she whispered, and covered
her eyes.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV

Coming down-stairs from Celia's room, Dr. Andrew Churchill made his way
through what had now become somewhat familiar ground to the little
kitchen. As he looked in at the door he beheld a slim figure in a big
Turkey-red apron, bending over a chicken which lay, in a state of
semi-dissection, upon the table. As he watched for a moment without
speaking, Charlotte herself spoke, without turning round.

"You horrid thing!" she said, tragically, to the chicken. "I hate
you--all slippery and bloody. Ugh! Why won't your old windpipe come out?
How anybody can eat you who has got you ready I don't know!"

"May I bother you for a pitcher of hot water?" asked an even voice from
the doorway.

Charlotte turned with a start. Her cheeks, already flushed, took on a
still ruddier hue.

"Yes, if you'll please help yourself," she answered, curtly, turning
back to her work. "I am--engaged."

"I see. A congenial task?"

"Very!" Charlotte's tone was expressive.

"Did I gather that the fowl's windpipe was the special cause of your
distress?" asked the even voice again.

Charlotte faced round once more.

"Doctor Churchill," she said, "I never cleaned a chicken in my life. I
don't know what I'm doing at all, only that I've been doing it for
almost an hour, and it isn't done. I presume it's because I take so much
time washing my hands."

She smiled in spite of herself as the doctor's hearty laugh filled the
little kitchen.

"I think I can appreciate your feelings," he remarked.

He walked over to the table. "Get a good hold on the offending windpipe,
shut your eyes and pull."

"I'm afraid of doing something wrong."

"You won't. The trachea of the domestic fowl was especially designed for
the purpose, only the necessary attachment for getting a firm grip on it
was accidentally omitted."

"It certainly was." Charlotte tugged away energetically for a moment,
and drew out the windpipe successfully. The doctor regarded the bird
with a quizzical expression.

"I should advise you to cut up the chicken and make a fricassee of it,"
he observed.

"I want to roast it. I've got the stuffing all ready." She indicated a
bowlful of macerated bread-crumbs mixed with milk and butter, and
liberal