“It makes rather pretty marks, I think,” said Eleanor; “like pot-moulding, only not white. But never mind, you’ve me at home now to wipe their paws.”
“They’ve missed you sorely,” said the cook, who seemed to be softening. “I almost think they knew it was you, they were so mad to get out.”
“Dear boys!” cried Eleanor, once more; and the dogs, who were asleep now, wagged their tails in their dreams.
“And there’s more’s missed you than them,” cook continued. “But, bless us, Miss Eleanor, you don’t look much better for being in strange parts. That young lady, too, looks as if she enjoyed poor health. Well, give me native air, there’s nothing like it; and you’ve not got back to yours too soon.”
Eleanor threw her arms round the cook, and danced her up and down the kitchen.
“Oh, dear cookey!” she cried; “I am so glad to be back again. And do be kind to us, and give us tea-cakes, and brown bread toast, and let the dogs come in to tea.”
Cook pushed her away, but with a relenting face.
“There, there, Miss Eleanor. Take that jug of hot water with you, and take the young lady up-stairs; and when you’ve cleaned yourselves, I’ll have something for you to eat; and you may suit yourselves about the dogs,—I’m sure I don’t want them. You’ve not got so much more sensible with all your schooling,” she added.
We went off to do her bidding, and left her muttering, “And what folks as can edicate their own children sends ’em all out of the house for, passes me; to come back looking like a damp handkerchief, with dear knows what cheap living and unwholesome ways, and want of native air.”
Cook’s bark was worse than her bite.