on every girl was presently busy at work.

"I'm going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That
ought to be enough to go around; only they'll all want the lemon ones.
'Christ Church,' Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said 'twas
the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, 't first thought
them out. I can make 'em good, too. What you goin' to make, yourself,
Dorothy Calvert?"

"I reckon--pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They're
nothing but eggs and flour and--and--I'll have to think. Oh! I know.
There's an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don't believe
Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table,
important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I've
seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?"

"No, nor don't want to. We ain't makin' jelly to-night, and do for
goodness' sake get to work!" cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all
by her own activity. "Ma says I'm a born cook and I'm going to prove
it, to-night, though I don't expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter,
you ought to know better than peel them 'tatoes so thick. 'Many
littles make a mickle,' I mean a lot of potato skins make a
potato--Oh! bother, do right, that's all. Just because Mrs. Calvert
she's a rich 'ristocratic, 'tain't no reason we should waste her
substance on the pigs."

Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept
her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor.
Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that
floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing
and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads.

"That's fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something
hearty," said Monty, smacking his lips.

Herbert sniffed, then advised: "I'll warrant you that Helena will try
angel cake. If she does, don't any of you touch it; or if you think
that isn't polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and
leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they'll ever get the supper
ready, anyhow."

"Afraid it'll be just 'anyhow,'" wailed Monty. "Those girls can't cook
worth a cent."

"Don't you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope
Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I've et 'em to picnics and they're
prime," said Mike Martin, loyally.

"Well, I only hope they don't keep us too long. I begin to feel as if
I c