“When will they be back?”
“Well, when they have done the job, I guess; but I don’t know when that will be,” replied the dame, as she took two dressed partridges from a plate on the shelf, and laid them over the fire.
“You see,” she added, as she took a cedar board about the size of a shingle, and plastered one side of it over with a thick corn-meal batter, and put it before the fire, propped up by a smoothing-iron. “You see, they will have to open all the doors and windows from cellar to garret, and kindle fires in every fireplace—that will take them pretty much all day.”
“Well, I think, if you will kindly direct me, I will walk up to the house as soon as I have taken breakfast.”
“I would advise you not to go yet awhile, honey,” said the housekeeper.
And now she became so busy—laying the cloth, then turning the johnny cake, putting the crockeryware on the table, then turning the partridges—flying quickly from hearth to cupboard, and from cupboard to fireplace—that Gloria could keep up no sustained conversation.
“Now, then, sit up and take your breakfast, my dear,” said Mrs. Brent, when she had at last got the frugal morning meal upon the table.
“These partridges are delicious,” said Gloria, when, with an appetite whetted by the keen mountain air, she had eaten a half of one.
“Yes, that’s some of Philly’s game! She shot them on Saturday. The imp is good for something. Only you see, honey, when she goes out I am always in a dread that she’ll never get back alive. Maybe never be heard of again until her bones are found bleaching on some rocky ledge!”
“Oh, how dreadful! You ought not to entertain such dismal thoughts!”