“Oh, that was right Marilla,” in a mollified tone. “Where’s Pansy?”
“On the porch, in the carriage. I think she’s hungry. It sounded as if she meant bread and milk.”
“Yes. They have that for their supper. I guess I can start it. I used to feed them 142 first. Let me see. I guess I can show you—you’re so handy unless they’ve spoiled you.”
She had Violet in her arms and said—“Bring in Pansy,” leading the way to a room that seemed a general storage place. She lighted the little pyro stove, opened a closet and took out a saucepan, a bottle of milk, a sugar dish and some spoons.
“Now as soon as it gets warm, you fix it—you cannot have forgotten how, and then turn this screw and put the light out. For heaven’s sake don’t set anything afire! Oh, there’s no place like your own home. I haven’t had an hour’s comfort since I came down here. And my dinner’s getting cold. Nice baked veal it was, with dressing. There babies, Marilla will give you some nice bread and milk.”
She ran off. The babies whined a little and then watched the proceedings. The stove stood up on a table and she poured out part of the milk. Then she gave the babies a crust of bread to stop their clamoring while she crumbed up some in the saucepan and kept stirring it so that it shouldn’t scorch, taking out part, presently. Pansy climbed 143 up by a chair and began to call “Bed’y mik, bed’y mik.”
Marilla put on her bib and began to feed her. Then Violet joined with her starvation cry. First it was one open pink mouth then the other. The viands disappeared as if by magic. She meant to have a little for herself—she was so weak and gone in the stomach, but she found she must make some more, even, for the babies. So she crumbed up the remainder of the loaf. How they did eat! She was very tired of ladling it in each little mouth.
She had a very little left for herself, but it seemed to help the desperately tired feeling. She had put the stove out without any mishap. Pansy began to cry—“Wock, wock.”
“What is it dear? Was it anything more to eat?” She glanced through the closet.
“Wock, wock,” hanging to her skirt.