"Pyramid. Go on," assisted Bettie, accustomed to Mabel's difficulties of speech.
"Pyramid, but someway the custard part and the jelly part all ran together and sat down. But it tastes a lot better than it looks."
"Bettie mustn't eat anything more for two hours," interposed Mrs. Tucker. "She's just had a big piece of strawberry shortcake. I'll set this pudding in the ice-box—that'll harden the jelly."
"I'm ever so much obliged," beamed Bettie, suspecting that Mabel would have enjoyed seeing her eat the "Ambrosial Delight." "It's nice of you to cook things for me."
"Even if they do turn out wrong most every time," supplemented Mabel. "Yes, I think it is nice, because I sort of hate to cook anyway, and everybody in our house just hates to have me. I'm so untidy, they say. I always have to do it when Bridget isn't looking and it makes me nervous to have to hurry. Can you think of anything else you'd like me to make?" continued this martyr. "Because I'd do it, if I had to get up before daylight."
"I don't know of anything unless somebody invents a dish that will go right straight to my knees. They wabble. I feel as if I'd like to run a mile, but by the time I've tottered to the gate I'm glad it isn't more than a dozen steps. There's your father coming—I'm going to ask him why my knees wabble so awfully."
Impulsive Mabel, at this news, instinctively scrambled under the bed. Then, remembering that she had really been pretty good all day, she sheepishly crawled out, to Bettie's amusement, to greet her surprised father.
"I'm on my way home," said she.