The latter part of Abel’s words were spoken to himself, for Gaspar had taken his knives to the grindstone in the yard and was now calling for Kitty to turn the stone for him, while he should hold the blades against its surface.
But it was Mercy who answered his summons, appearing in the doorway with her sleeves rolled up, her apron floured, and her round face aglow with haste and excitement.
“Well? well, Gaspar Keith? What you want of Kit?”
“To help me.”
“Help yourself. I can’t spare her.”
“Then I can’t grind the knives. That’s all.” He tossed them down to wait her pleasure, and Mercy groaned.
“If I ain’t the worst bestead woman in the world! Here’s all creation coming to be fed, an’ no help but a little girl like Kit an’ a grumpy old squaw ’t don’t know enough to ’preciate her privileges. Hey! Gaspar! Call Abel in to breakfast. An’ after that maybe sissy can turn the stun. Here ’tis goin’ on six o’clock, if it’s a minute, an’ some the folks’ll be pokin’ over here by seven, sure!”
Then Mercy retreated within doors and directed the Sun Maid to:
“Fly ’round right smart now an’ set the house to one side. Whisk them flapjacks over quicker ’an that, then they’ll not splish-splash all over the griddle. When I was a little girl nine years old I could fry cakes as round as an apple. No reason why you shouldn’t, too, if you put your mind to it.”