“That’s the question,” said Uncle Roger, shaking his head gravely.
Uncle Roger’s laughter was hard to bear, but his gravity was harder.
Meanwhile, in the pantry the Story Girl, apron-enshrouded, was being initiated into the mysteries of bread-making. Under Felicity’s eyes she set the bread, and on the morrow she was to bake it.
“The first thing you must do in the morning is knead it well,” said Felicity, “and the earlier it’s done the better—because it’s such a warm night.”
With that we went to bed, and slept as soundly as if tragedies of blue chests and turnips and crooked cows had no place in the scheme of things at all.
CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD PROVERB WITH A NEW MEANING
It was half-past five when we boys got up the next morning. We were joined on the stairs by Felicity, yawning and rosy.
“Oh, dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose the fire is on anyhow, for the Story Girl is up. I guess she got up early to knead the bread. She couldn’t sleep all night for worrying over it.”
The fire was on, and a flushed and triumphant Story Girl was taking a loaf of bread from the oven.