"I cal'late that's so," agreed Cap'n Ira, his eyes twinkling. "They'd ought to examine all the babies born on the Cape first off, and them that ain't web-footed ought to be sent to agricultural school 'stead of to the fishing. But that ain't why our potato crop's a failure this year. And as far as I see, talking won't cure many fish, either."
"Can't I help?" asked Ida May in her gentle voice. "You know, I've come here to work. I don't expect to play lady."
"Well, I don't know. It ain't the kind of work you are used to."
"I've been used to work all my life, and all kinds of work," interposed the girl bravely.
"But you seem so eddicated," Prudence said.
"Getting an education did not keep me from learning how to use my hands."
"Well, Sarah Honey was a right good housekeeper," granted Prudence.
At that the girl fell suddenly silent, as she did whenever Sarah Honey's name was mentioned. And yet she knew she must get used to such references to her presumed mother. Prudence frequently recalled incidents which had happened when Sarah Honey visited the Ball house before she was married.
They had supper, a plentiful meal if there was not much variety. Prudence had made a "two-egg cake" and opened a jar of beach-plum preserves to follow the creamed fish and biscuits.
"I must learn to make biscuit as good as these," said Ida May.