Harriot settled back in her chair and began to rock furiously.
“I don’t think I’ll go to the dêpot to-day,” she said finally.
Corinne looked at her indignantly.
“What did you let me take all the trouble to powder my nose for then?” she demanded. “You know ma won’t let me go alone in that crowd, and there’s sure to be some news.”
“Oh, bother the news!” Harriot murmured under her breath, unconsciously turning her head to look in the direction of the kitchen.
“Harriot May!” cried Corinne disapprovingly, “you speak as if you didn’t care about the victories of our great Confederacy.”
“But they aren’t always victories,” Harriot returned bluntly. “That’s the trouble. We’re just as apt to hear that the hateful Yankees have beaten us again and—and besides, I’d rather stay here, anyhow.” Once more she turned an eye toward the cooking-quarters and sniffed.
“You’re not thinking of eating again?” Corinne demanded.
“Yes, I am,” Harriot answered blandly. “Aunt Decent’s going to make corn meal poundcake and if we hang ’round the kitchen she’ll bake us each a little patty-pan.”
“You’re such a child,” Corinne said, with the patronizing smile fifteen bestows upon twelve; but if she expected Harriot to resent her grown-up airs she must have been disappointed. The “child” suddenly jumped to her feet as a faint odor of baking drifted into the room.