“If any of you dare tell this at the picnic to-morrow, or let Uncle Harry or the boys know about it, I'll—I don't know what I'll do,” finished she, weakly.
“That's a fearful threat,” laughed Jo,—“'The King of France and fifty thousand men plucked forth their swords! and put them up again.'”
And so this cloud passed over, and another and yet another with comforting gleams of sunshine between, till at length it was seven o'clock in the evening before the dishes were washed and the kitchen tidied; then six as tired young housewives stretched themselves before the parlor fire as a bright blaze often shines upon. Bell, pale and pretty, was curled upon the sofa, with her eyes closed. The other girls were lounging in different attitudes of dejection, all with from one to three burned fingers enveloped in cloths. The results of the day's labor were painfully meager,—a colander full of doughnuts, some currant buns, molasses ginger-bread, and a loaf of tolerably light fruit cake. Out in the kitchen closet lay a melancholy pile of failure,—Alice's pop-overs, which had refused to pop; Patty's tarts, rocky and tough; and a bride's cake that would have made any newly married couple feel as if they were at the funeral of their own stomachs. The girls had flown too high in their journey through the cook book. Bell and Jo could really make plain things very nicely, and were considered remarkable caterers by their admiring family of school-mates; but the dainties they had attempted were entirely beyond their powers; hence the pile of wasted goodies in the closet.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Lilia. “Nobody has spoken a word for an age, and I don't wonder, if everybody is as tired as I. Shall we ever be rested enough to go to-morrow?”
“I was thinking,” said Edith, dreamily, “that we have only seven more days to stay. If they were all to be as horrible as this, I shouldn't care very much; but we have had such fun, I dread to break up housekeeping. The chief trouble with to-day was that we did no planning yesterday. We never looked into the store-room nor bought anything in advance nor settled what we should cook.”
“Well,” said Bell, waking up a little, “we will crowd everything possible into the last week and make it a real carnival time. To-morrow is Saturday and the picnic; on Monday or Tuesday we'll have some sort of a 'pow-wow,' as Uncle Harry says, for the boys, in return for their invitation, and then we'll think of something perfectly grand and stupendous for Friday, our last day of fun. It will take from that until Monday to get the house into something like order for my mother's return. (This with a remorseful recollection of the terrible back bed-room, where everything imaginable had been 'dumped' for a week past.)
“I haven't finished trimming our shade hats,” called Alice, faintly, from the distance. “I will do it in the morning while you are packing the luncheon. Whatever we do let us unpack our baskets privately and try to mix in our food with Mrs. Carter's or Mrs. Winship's, so that nobody will know which is which.”
The girls had tried to devise something jaunty, picturesque, and summery for a picnic costume; but the weather being too cold for a change of dress, they had only bought broad straw hats at the country store,—hats that farmers wore in haying time, with high crowns and wide brims. They had turned up one side of them coquettishly, and adorned it with funny silhouettes made of black paper, descriptive of their various adventures. Lilia's, for instance, had a huge ink bottle and sponge; Bell's a mammoth pie and frying-pan. Around the crowns they had tied colored scarfs of ribbon or gauze, interwoven with bunches of dried grasses, oats, and everlastings.
Half-past eight found them all sleep-in as soundly as dormice; and the next morning with the recuperative power that youth brings, they awoke entirely refreshed and ready for the fray.
The picnic was a glorious success. It was a clear, bright day, and not very cold; so that with a good fire they were able to have a couple of windows open, and to feel more as if they were out in the fresh air. The surprise and delight of the girls knew no bounds when they were ushered into their novel picnic ground, and even the older people avowed that they had never seen such a miracle of ingenuity. The scene was as pretty a one as can be imagined, though the young people little knew how lovely a picture they helped to make in the midst of their pastoral surroundings. Six charming faces they were, happy with girlish joy, sweet and bright from loving hearts, and pure, innocent, earnest living. Bell was radiant, issuing orders for the spread of the feast, flying here and there, laughing over a stuffed snake under a bush (Geoff's device), and talking merry nonsense with Hugh, her arch eyes shining with mischief under her great straw hat.