Molly congratulated herself on her unusual good fortune in securing such a girl as Marta, when she saw, in initiating her into the bedroom work, how well she did it. But she was not to be without her trials, even with this treasure, any more than every other housekeeper. When she knew, by the time, that the bread was ready, being deep in the draping of some chintz she had had in their city room, she told Marta to run down and put it in the oven, and to take the cover off the cake, but on no account to move or shake it, as the bread would go in on the other side of it.
Marta ran down, if the term can be applied to the lumbering movement with which she hurled herself down-stairs. Molly heard her carrying out her order, and then she heard a sound that elicited an exclamation of annoyance. It was the sound of the oven door closing with a tremendous bang.
“My poor cake! how vexatious!” For a moment vexation impelled her to scold Marta, but if Molly was one thing more than another, she was reasonable. Her blame was for herself more than for the girl. “How could she know? I must give her a general caution; I suppose the cake is gone utterly.”
It was. She met Marta returning to her up-stairs work smiling serenely.
“Marta, I want you to come and look at the result of banging the oven door in that way when cake is in the oven,—and you must remember, too, never to set a pot heavily on the range; when a cake has once risen, until quite done, any sudden jar will cause it to settle down. Look at this; you see the cake is all sunken.”
Marta stood, the picture of concern, her teeth pressed tight over her under lip.
“Never mind, we’ll look on the cake as a lesson; to-morrow you must make another as you saw me do this. Go and finish up-stairs, and I think, as we have no cake to-day, I will make a pie for dinner. When you come down you will see me make the paste, as everything I do I hope you will do later.”
When Marta came down Molly weighed out six ounces of butter and eight ounces of flour—the butter was straight from the ice-box and very firm; these she put together in a chopping-bowl with a pinch of salt, opened the window to let in the cool air, and then chopped butter and flour together, but not very fine, the butter still remaining in well-defined bits, some as large as white beans, when she left off. Making a hole in the centre, she poured in a small half cup of ice-water, and made it, with as little pressure as possible, into a firm dough. A few bits of butter and flour fell from it, but she did not stay to work them in smoothly, explaining to Marta, as she turned all out on to the pastry-board, that they would roll in smooth, and the less handling the pastry had the better. She rolled it out half an inch thick, folded it in three, putting any little flakes of butter that might be on the board upon it, and rolled it out again. (This was done as quickly as possible, so that the warm air of the kitchen might not soften the butter.) She dredged very little flour on it, and folded it again in three, rolled it again, and then once more folded and rolled it, making three times in all.
“Now, if I were in a hurry, I should use the pastry at once, as it is ready, but it will be so much lighter and better by being put on the ice that I shall leave it till I come out to see to the dinner. I will have cold lamb and salad for my lunch,—you know how to prepare the lettuce.” And Molly left the kitchen, knowing she had now some hours in which she could attend to getting things into place, etc.
Hardly was her luncheon cleared away, however, when Marta brought in a card, saying a lady had given it to her, but she didn’t know what she wanted. It bore the name of Mrs. Merit, and realizing that the visitor was left standing at the front door, Molly hurried out to receive her. She apologized for Marta’s keeping her there.