"Don't be saucy!" snapped the old lady.
Then she set about washing the little girl's hands and face, rubbing so hard that it made the tears come, finishing off with the towel until Mary Frances felt her face shine.
"Wonder if she thinks I'm a stove," she thought. "Maybe she'll black me some day by mistake! I don't believe she knows how old I am—she treats me like a baby, for all the world sometimes, yet she thinks I ought to know more. Queer!"
While Aunt Maria was busy getting dinner, she ran up to her mother's room.
"Mother," she asked, "Aunt Maria will be gone home most of the day time, while you're away, won't she?"
"Yes, dear," said Mother; "you and Brother are to go to her house to lunch."
"Mother, dear," begged Mary Frances, "can't I get lunch for Brother and me? I was going to tell you I read—I found the recipe for the Milk Toast in my little cook book you've been making for me. I came up and found it while you were asleep—I just know I can get our lunches. Please, Mother, can't I try?"
"Well, dear," said Mother, smiling, "I really believe you may. I've just been thinking about the toast, and what a woman my dear little girl is."
Just then Aunt Maria called: