Sandy laughed, put the lid in its place and sat on the table, swinging one long leg comfortably. He gloried in the element of home that he had brought about him and to see Sally in the kitchen always gave him a distinct thrill.
"Make some gingerbread for supper," he pleaded, "and give me the lickings, Sally. Do you know I never had lickings until I went to Massachusetts."
"Lands! Sandy Morley, I don' gave you millions mysef! Yo' pa was allas fur lettin' yo' off, but I lathered yo' mo'n once, chile, an' so saved yo' fo' yo' luck."
"I mean 'leavings' in the bowl when the cake's ready for the oven. Come Sally, let me help you get things together. Molasses, spices, milk——"
"I'll get the res'. Now, son, do tackle this yere can o' risin' powder. Take this yere Handy Andy an' pry the kiver. Seems like these new-fangled cookin' yarbs is put up jes' ter try the patience ob de saints."
Sandy took the instrument, and utilizing one of its many powers, loosened the cover and handed the baking powder to Sally.
"I wonder how you ever kept your hand in at cooking?" he said musingly as he reflected upon the past. But Sally was on guard.
"Lor, chile! an' why not? Ain't I allas had my own po'k and bacon? Ain't I lived up to the Great House fo' years an' years?"
"Of course. And Sally, that reminds me. I'm going to buy the Great House and—make it as it was before the war!"
"Gawd!" gasped Sally.