"Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work together. Let me tie this apron around you."
Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.
"O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.
"Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate."
This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.
"Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.
"A thick layer of these apples—no, just a layer of sugar and flour—then the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put any of these spices on that you wish."
"I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically studying the spice shakers.
"Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it to breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the oven."
"O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great—great appomplishment."