"Make some biscuit or a Johnny-cake," said Charlie, fertile in expedients. "Dot, I've just discovered the bent of your budding mind."
"What?" asked the child, tying on a large apron.
"Keeping a hotel. Why, it's been elegant for almost a week!—a perfect crowd, and not a silver fork or a goblet, or a bit of china; rag-carpet on the floor, and a bed in the best room. Nothing but happiness inside and out! Even the ravens haven't cried. You see, it isn't money, but a contented mind, a kitchen apron, a saucepan, and a genius for cooking."
"But you must have something to cook," was Dot's sage comment.
"True, my dear. Words of priceless wisdom fall from your young lips,—diamonds and pearls actually! Now, if you will tell me what to put in a cake"—
"A pinch of this, and a pinch of that," laughed Dot. "I am afraid to trust your unskilful hands; so you may wait upon me. Open the draught, and stir the fire: then you may bring me the soda and the sour milk, and beat the eggs—oh, there in the basket!"
"Dot, my small darling, spare me! I am in a hopeless confusion. Your brain must be full of shelves and boxes where every article is labelled. One thing at a time."
"The fire first, then."
Dot sifted her flour, and went to work. Charlie sang a droll little song for her, and then set the table. Their supper was a decided success. Edmund came in, and was delighted to see his uncle. There was hero Joe, gay as a sky-full of larks. It didn't seem as if any of them had ever known trouble or sorrow. Even Granny gave her old chirruping laugh.
The next day they had some serious talks. Hal and Mr. Darol slipped into a pleasant confidence.