What is more, we are now opening a regular tea room. Mrs. Kitchell had had one at the beginning, but it had fallen into nothingness. Now I have one—the darlingest room—all in golden brown and white. It complements the other room in the nicest way, and yet is very different indeed. I have some curious Japanese dishes, sort of crackled in effect, white and brown, and odd serving dishes in dull yellow majolica. And we use the mountain-made trays of willow and some of the mountain pottery. I have three neat, sweet, fleet mountain girls in here helping with the tea room, and people simply throng to it. I write out the little menu every morning before I get out of bed, and one of these girls, who really has a head on her, prepares the things in the most appetizing manner.
“People,” I said to her, “don’t come in here because they are hungry. They come because they want to be amused. And they won’t be amused unless everything looks beautiful.”
Carin is doing a lot of the cooking. She is doing it because she wants to know how to cook. She is going to be married before spring, and there is simply no use in her trying to do anything in her own kitchen. The servants won’t let her; or if they do consent they all stand around and watch till she is so nervous she can’t do a thing. But over in our kitchen she can do just what she pleases. She makes those delicious little cakes called “hermits” and “marguerites” and “rocks” and her sandwiches are as good to look at as they are to taste. She has a new kind every day.
I am terribly stern with her about keeping books, however, and she has to put down every cent she spends. The tea room must make money for us or we’ll not run it. I have become fiercely practical.
Oh, how light my heart is! There is so much to do each day that I can hardly get through, and I fall asleep as soon as I touch the bed, and am oblivious to the whole world until my alarm goes off. But I set my alarm pretty early because each day I must think out my work before I get up. I write out my program for the day and insist on following it.
Of course quantities and quantities of people come in the shop who do not purchase, but I do not waste much time with them. I have a little sign on the wall telling our patrons to look around as much as they please, and when they have made their selection to let us know. I add that they are most welcome; whether they purchase or no, they are to make themselves at home.
Meantime, I have a pleasant young girl at hand ready to wait on them when they wish her to, and I, though I appear to be busy with other matters, keep an ear cocked, and if she seems to need reinforcing, I come to her assistance. By the way, who do you suppose that girl is? Why, she is Liza Wixon, from Mount Hebron, the girl whose soup I sampled so generously without invitation. I have persuaded both her mother and her to come down and help me. So they have put their sadness behind them and are working like good fellows. Of course they have a secret of some kind, but I shall never ask what it is.
I am sending off letters to our workers, begging them to hasten their wares to us, telling them the demand for their work is here. All we need is the goods.
No, I don’t go anywhere. Do you wish I would? When I first came home people began giving me teas and all that, but I begged them not to.
“Come and see me Sunday afternoons,” I told them. “I mustn’t indulge in a social life. I wouldn’t have time and strength for that along with all my work.”