Just as Hester’s lively imagination was picturing all sorts of calamities which might have overtaken her sister, that individual came hurriedly in with a bottle of salad oil in her hand.
“Well, where on earth have you been?” cried Hester; “I thought you must have dropped dead or been kidnaped or something fearful.”
“Was I so long? I am sorry, dear, but you see I made a call en route.”
“A call! who ever heard of such a thing! Where is Peter Snooks?” suddenly missing him.
“He is finishing the visit for me.” Julie laughed with a provokingly mysterious air.
Hester, who had been working on alone and diving her head into a hot oven every five minutes to anxiously watch the evolution of bothersome little dabs of thin dough into small puffy cakes, was feeling decidedly cross and resented her sister’s apparent indifference to the business at hand.
“Well, I’m glad if you have time to gad about,” she said, witheringly. “I thought we were going to take a lesson in making mayonnaise.”
“You goose!” exclaimed Julie, pushing her away from the hot oven and herself kneeling down to peer in. “I’ll watch these cakes—you sit down and draw a breath and the cork of the oil at the same time, while I tell you what happened.”
Somewhat mollified, Hester obeyed, and even deigned to show interest when Julie graphically described their neighbors.
“Wasn’t it odd, Hester, just walking right into the midst of things like that? And the boy was so pathetic, and his mother was so quaint, with such a sweet face and pretty, wavy hair, and I only stayed a moment, dear, really, for all the time I knew you’d be wondering what had become of me.”