“Why Allie Ross,” she exclaimed, dropping her beater and extending her hand. “I surely am glad to see you. Set down. I’ll hev this cake in the oven before you can turn around and then I’ve a power of talk to get rid of. The good Marster must have sent you here to-day.”
“Why?” asked Alison, as she sat down on the rough bench and watched Louisa deftly mix her ingredients together.
“Oh, there are lots of whys. I’ll tell you in a minute. Pike Smith still in there?” she asked in an undertone.
Alison nodded yes.
Louisa made a contemptuous mouth. “Wish he’d git out,” she continued, still in a low voice, stirring her batter vigorously and then slipping the yellow, smooth mixture into the pan.
“I thought you must be making the cake specially on his account,” said Alison with a little laugh.
Louisa cast her a scornful glance. “You know better than that. He thinks, and they all think, I’m plum crazy to want anything but corn-bread and fry. I tell dad if I tend to the chickens, and if he can’t buy me a little flour and sugar once in a while I’ll go where I can get it easier. I ain’t seen any decent butter sence I came down here except what I make myself. I never did see people so easy pleased.”
“I’m sure we never get any good butter any more,” complained Alison. “Christine was saying the other day that we’d have to learn to make it if you would show us how. Nobody about here knows what real butter is.”
“I’ll show you and welcome. Let’s go outside; it’s getting hot as Tophet in this kitchen.”
They established themselves comfortably on a log by the door, and Alison immediately began her questioning. “Why did you say I was specially sent to you to-day?”