So Edna's feet were thrust into the hot bath, and she was made to sip the hot drink, then was bundled into bed with charges not to allow her arms out from under the covers. It was rather a warm and unpleasant experience, and the worst of it was that grandma said the next morning that she mustn't think of going out-of-doors that day.
"Oh, dear," sighed the little girl, when she was alone with her mother, "don't you think grandma is very particular? Did she used to do so when you were a little girl?"
"She did indeed, and when she was a little girl it was even worse, for instead of lemonade to drink, she was made to take a very bitter dose of herb tea, or a dreadful mess called composition which had every sort of nauseous thing in it you can think of. Little folks nowadays get off very easily, it seems to me."
"I didn't mind the hot lemonade a bit, but I shall never forget the smell of that mustard water," said Edna after a pause.
Her mother laughed. "You must be thankful that it is no more than that."
"What am I going to do to-day?" inquired the little girl. "I was going to do ever so many nice things out-of-doors and now I can't."
"Then we must think up some nice things to do indoors."
"What kind of things?"
"I shall have to put on my thinking cap in order to find that out. Meanwhile, suppose you run down to grandma with this tumbler; it had your lemonade in it and should go down to be washed."
Edna ran off to her grandma, coming back presently with a much brighter countenance than she took away. "Grandma is going to let me help with the turtle cakes," she said eagerly. "That's a very nice thing, don't you think?"