C. D. You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put into my composition, I guess; and after standing quiet in a warm corner so long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time so that I may turn out a wholesome loaf, else I shall turn sour and good for nothing. Does that make the matter any clearer?
Mrs. D. I see what you mean, Christie, but I never thought on’t before. You be better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it hard and dry. Now fly round, for the big oven is ’most hot, and this cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.
C. D. You haven’t said I might go, Aunt Betsy.
Mrs. D. (Sorting ingredients and reading from cookbook). I ain’t no right to keep you, dear, if you choose to take (a pinch of salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only (beat six yolks and whites together). But if you can’t, and feel that you need (two cups of sugar) only speak to your uncle, and ef he says (a squeeze of fresh lemon) go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you (not forgetting to cover with a piece of paper).
C. D. When I’ve done something to be proud of, you’ll be glad to see me back again. Yes, I’ll try my experiment; get rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs. Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or—
Mrs. D. How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?
C. D. Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off for stockings, ma’am.
Mrs. D. Don’t you think you could be contented, Christie, ef I make the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?
C. D. No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here.