ake with flour?" she asked, smiling at me.

"Bread."

"What else?"

"Pap."

"And what else?"

"Why, I don't know."

"Yes, you know, only as you are a good little boy, you don't dare say.
You know that to-day is Pancake day, and because you think we haven't
any butter and milk you don't dare speak. Isn't that so, eh?

"Oh, Mother."

"I didn't mean that Pancake day should be so bad after all for my little
Remi. Look in that bin."

I lifted up the lid quickly and saw some milk, butter, eggs, and three
apples.

"Give me the eggs," she said; "while I break them, you peel the apples."

While I cut the apples into slices, she broke the eggs into the flour
and began to beat the mixture, adding a little milk from time to time.
When the paste was well beaten she placed the big earthenware bowl on
the warm cinders, for it was not until supper time that we were to have
the pancakes and fritters. I must say frankly that it was a very long
day, and more than once I lifted up the cloth that she had thrown over
the bowl.

"You'll make the paste cold," she cried; "and it won't rise well."

But it was rising well, little bubbles were coming up on the top. And
the eggs and milk were beginning to smell good.

"Go and chop some wood," Mother Barberin said; "we need a good clear
fire."

At last the candle was lit.

"Put the wood on the fire!"

She did not have to say this twice; I had been waiting impatiently to
hear these words. Soon a bright flame leaped up the chimney and the
light from the fire lit up all the kitchen. Then Mother Barberin took
down the frying pan from its hook and placed it on the fire.

"Give me the butter!"

With the end of her knife she slipped a piece as large as a nut into the
pan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we had
smelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to it
fizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.

Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhaps
to ask for some firewood. I couldn't think, for just at that moment
Mother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouring
a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let
one's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then
it was flung open.

"Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.

A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that
he carried a big stick in