She turned them often for about four minutes. During the process she had put in the little dish that was to receive them a piece of butter the size of a butternut, a level salt-spoonful of salt, a little pepper, and a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce. When the kidneys were done they were removed from the skewer, and each well rolled in the hot butter and seasoning. They were just enough cooked in that four minutes for the gravy to start when the fork pricked them; if over-cooked they become tough.
“Kidneys!” cried Harry, as Molly removed the heated vegetable-dish-cover she had used to send them unchilled to table. “Dear Molly, where do you scare up these metropolitan dainties in the wilds of Jersey?”
“Nothing so easy; actually, the butcher throws them in with his tallow, and seemed surprised that I wanted them.”
“I’m afraid such ignorance can’t last,” said Harry “and when he finds lamb’s kidneys are really very desirable, he will value them accordingly.”
“No, not until he has customers who do; and I suspect, although the man I buy from sells good meat, that he is not the fashionable butcher of Greenfield.”
“They are cooked to a turn, Molly.”
“I am glad. I should have had them on toast in the orthodox way, but knew you preferred fresh bread.”
In the afternoon Mrs. Lennox came with her work-basket to sew, while she paid Molly a visit.
“I want to have a little talk with you, but can only spare the time if I bring some darning with me, so you will excuse me.”
“I am glad, for I also have my sewing,” she said, and she colored a little as she displayed a dainty little garment.