"I'm slowly getting to think," said Molly reflectively; "that our mothers are wonderful women. If it takes three of us to spoil one dinner, how do they get along, to do all the housekeeping and look out for us and sew and all?"
"Perhaps they know more to start with," suggested Alan, ducking his head out of reach of Polly's threatening fingers.
"If you hadn't been and gone and burned yourself in our service,
Alan," she said, laughing, "I would turn you out of the house."
But Molly was too much in earnest to heed this by-play.
"I believe I'll learn to cook," she went on. "I don't mean fancy cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on."
"Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly.
"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden flurry of rain swept against the windows.
"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."
"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."
"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."