"Very creditable, child," she said, looking at the shelves, all in order, "very creditable indeed. I can't understand it—with no one to show you how to——"
"I have my little book," said Mary Frances.
"Book!" sniffed Aunt Maria, putting the breakfast cereal on to cook. "Book! A book can't tell you exactly when a piece of toast is brown enough, or a potato just done enough to be mealy, nor how to keep a pan from burning. Book! It's talent! That's what it is! Blood will tell. You inherited it from me. I never burnt pans—never in my life—there's no excuse for it."
"Yes, ma'am," said Mary Frances, thinking of the ruined breakfast.
"Go up, and open the beds to air," commanded Aunt Maria.
When Mary Frances got back, she could scarcely see across the kitchen for smoke.
"Fire!" screamed Aunt Maria, making for Boiler Pan on the stove.
"I thought the house was on fire," she panted, snatching it up. "Oh,—oh, I wish I had my smelling salts! The porridge is all burnt up! What a disgrace!"
Mary Frances felt very sorry for her, but when she saw Sauce Pan and Coffee Pot holding their queer little fists over their mouths to keep from laughing out, and when she remembered how funny the old lady looked making across the kitchen in two steps, she ran back into the dining room to laugh.