here were those who looked deeper, and they discerned a certain
vague terror in the movement--a dread of the unknown. Since that
time--almost a year now--Nannie had been hovering on the border line,
something like a ghost that has ceased to be an inhabitant of this
world and yet refuses to be well laid.

"Now listen to this, girls," said Puddy, who was intent on reading her
excerpts to the bitter end. "'If a wife is allowed to boil at all,
_she always boils over_.'"

"It would require a high temperature to boil you, Hilda," said
Prudence with a laugh, for Hilda's good-nature had passed into
proverb.

The girl looked down from her five feet nine inches of height with her
easy, comfortable smile.

"Why? Because of my altitude?" she asked.

"'And you will be sure to scald your fingers and get the worst of
it,'" Puddy went on relentlessly.

This struck Evelyn's fancy and she exclaimed:

"Girls, I can just see Nannie's husband sitting in the doorway of
their cabin blowing his fingers and wincing."

"Can you?" said a voice, and the girls started as they saw Nannie
standing between the curtains of the folding doors.

Sometimes she resembled an elf in her weird beauty; just now she
looked more like an imp.

Something disagreeable might have ensued, for Nannie's temper was
uncertain and undisciplined, but Prudence said in a presidential tone:

"Young ladies, it is for you to decide how you will be served up in
future. Will some one please make a motion?"

"Oh, let's decide how each other will be served," said Hilda. "You
know at church nobody applies any of the sermon to himself, but fits
it all on to his neighbors."

"Evelyn will be raked over the coals," said Nannie in a low, intense
voice.

Evelyn's handsome face flushed and her lips parted for a retort, but
Hilda exclaimed:

"Puddy will be made into delicious round croquets," and she smacked
her lips with anticipatory relish.

"Hilda'll be kept in a nice continual stew," retorted Puddy.

"Nannie'll be parboiled, fried, fricasseed----" began Hilda, but
Nannie exclaimed:

"No, I'll be roasted--you see if I'm not!"

"Prue will be baked in a genteel, modern way," said Evelyn.

"Yes!" shouted Hilda, to get above the noise. "Girls, mark my words.
Some day Mr. Smith, Brown, or Jones, whoever he is, will invite us all
to a clambake, and when we arrive we'll find it's just dear old Prue
served up."

This hit at Prudence's usual silence struck the company