“Just look,” she said proudly. “I have every bit of the bread baked. I got up at three, and it was lovely and light, so I just gave it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven. And it’s all done and out of the way. But the loaves don’t seem quite as big as they should be,” she added doubtfully.
“Sara Stanley!” Felicity flew across the kitchen. “Do you mean that you put the bread right into the oven after you kneaded it without leaving it to rise a second time?”
The Story Girl turned quite pale.
“Yes, I did,” she faltered. “Oh, Felicity, wasn’t it right?”
“You’ve ruined the bread,” said Felicity flatly. “It’s as heavy as a stone. I declare, Sara Stanley, I’d rather have a little common sense than be a great story teller.”
Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl’s mortification.
“Don’t tell Uncle Roger,” she implored humbly.
“Oh, I won’t tell him,” promised Felicity amiably. “It’s lucky there’s enough old bread to do to-day. This will go to the hens. But it’s an awful waste of good flour.”
The Story Girl crept out with Felix and me to the morning orchard, while Dan and Peter went to do the barn work.
“It isn’t ANY use for me to try to learn to cook,” she said.