“Afraid it’ll be just ‘anyhow,’” wailed Monty. “Those girls can’t cook worth a cent.”
“Don’t you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I’ve et ’em to picnics and they’re prime,” said Mike Martin, loyally.
“Well, I only hope they don’t keep us too long. I begin to feel as if I could eat hay with the cattle.”
After all, the young cooks were fairly successful, and the delay not very great. Most of them were well trained helpers at home, even Dorothy had been such; but this time she had failed.
“Three times I’ve made those things just exactly like the rule—only four times as much—and those miserable pop-overs just will not pop! We might as well call the boys and give them what there is. And——”
At this moment Dorothy withdrew her head from a careful scrutiny of the oven, and—screamed! The next instant she had darted forward to the imposing figure framed in the doorway and thrown her arms about it, crying:
“O, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty! I’m a bad, careless girl, but I love you and I’m so glad, so glad you’ve come!”