Cricket sprang for them eagerly, at the suggestion.
“It seems sort of mean to eat the very things we brought,” she said, hesitating a moment. “Oh, well, mamma will send some more things down to-morrow, when I tell her how we eat up everything Mrs. Brummagen had in the house. Don’t these taste good? I feel as if I were at home again now,” attacking a thin, crisp ginger-snap, and making way with it almost in one mouthful. In a minute there was nothing left but the crumbs of the whole supply. Mosina sat staring wistfully at them.
“The poor dear!” said Hilda. “We’ve eaten up every single thing now, and she looks hungry still.”
“There’s a little more milk,” said Cricket, getting it. “Drink this, baby. Hilda, do you suppose the burned bread would hurt her if we crumbled it into the milk for her? Perhaps she won’t taste it.”
Apparently Mosina did not mind it, for she eat it eagerly.
“What let’s do now?” asked Hilda. “When will Mrs. Brummagen be home, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Let’s clear the table and iron these sheets. You know we were going to get them all done.”
Flat-irons had been standing on the stove all the morning, though the girls had pushed them back in their attempts at cooking. Hilda looked resigned at Cricket’s proposal, but said nothing. The two cleared the table of the remains of their banquet, and piled up the scanty array of dishes.
The sheets were still lying in damp, flattened coils in the basket, where they had put them. Cricket found the ironing-board and put it between the table and a chair, as she had seen the laundress do at home. They unfolded a sheet and spread it out carefully, wrinkled and wet, over the board, not noticing that half of it lay on the floor behind.
Cricket, with a professional air, tested one of the irons, again imitating the laundress.