“It isn’t much like ours at home,” she said now. “I wonder what Lisa would say to it.”
“And how would yours be like this, miss, with only a heathen sort of body to look after it?” Katie remarked.
“But Lisa isn’t a heathen sort of body! She’s a nice, fat old dear! And she can make tamales!”
“You come look at these, miss!” Katie led the way to the great pantry, pointing proudly to one of the shelves, where stood five small pies in a row—mince, pumpkin, apple, cranberry, custard.
“Oh, how cute!” Blue Bonnet cried delightedly. “Are they for me?”
“And who else would they be for? ’Tis some use, keeping holiday now, with a young body in the house.”
“There’ll be two to-morrow; Alec’s coming to dinner. What made you think of these, Katie, you darling?”
“’Twas me aunt—who was cook here afore me—always made the little pies at Thanksgiving time, miss.”
“For my mother?” Blue Bonnet asked softly.
“For both the young ladies in their time, miss.”