"Nobody'd touch ye!" said Frances. "Ye've got to have juice to make gravy, ye little bones-bag. I told ye let me see to it; men-folks always messes when they try to manage nice things. It's like as if you started to whip cream with a garding hose."
"I don't care!" said Bannan. "'Twas me the telegram come to, and 'twas me they expected to see to it. You'd like to boss everything and everybody on the place, Frances."
"I'll boss you with this mop, little man, if you give me any sauce," said Frances, with massive calm. "Go away now and feed your beasts; it's what you're best at."
"But you'll have the supper ready and all, Frances? If I can feed beasts, you can feed their masters, I'm bound to own that," said Bannan, presenting this transparent sop with an air of hopeful diffidence.
"Go 'long with ye!" said Frances, loftily, yet with a suggestion of softening in her voice. "I've kep' Mr. John's birthday for twenty years, but I reckon you'd better tell me how to do it this time."
"And you'll tell nobody about—them—"
But here Frances raised the mop with such a businesslike air that Bannan took himself off, grumbling and shaking his head.
Left alone, Frances fell into a frenzy of preparation, and when Margaret found her half an hour later, she was beating eggs, stoning raisins, and creaming butter, apparently all at the same moment. An ardent consultation followed. What flavor would Mr. John (Frances would never say Mr. Montfort) like best for the ice-cream? and the cake—would a caramel frosting be best, or a boiled frosting with candied fruits chopped into it? and for the small cakes, now, and the tartlets?
Mr. Montfort's birthday came, as most birthdays do, once a year. Considering this, it was a singular thing that he, the most methodical of men, who turned his calendar as regularly as he wound his watch, never seemed to remember it. He never failed to be astonished at Margaret's morning greeting. More than this, he apparently forgot it as soon as it was over, for he always had a fresh stock of astonishment on hand for the health-imperilling feast that Frances was sure to arrange for the evening. To-day he took no notice of the fact that wherever he went he came upon some girl or boy carrying armfuls of flowers and ferns, or arranging them in bowls, jars, and vases. When he found his desk heaped with a tangle of clematis and wild lilies,—Peggy had dropped them there "just for a minute," half an hour before,—this excellent man merely said "Charming," and rescued his pet Montaigne from the wet sprays which covered it. In the course of the morning, Fernley House was transformed into a bower of greenery, lit up with masses of splendid color. Everywhere drooped or nodded clusters of ferns, the ostrich fern and the great Osmunda Regalis, with here and there masses of maiden-hair, most delicate and beautiful of all. In the library, especially, the ferns were arranged with all the skill and care that Margaret possessed. They outlined the oaken shelves, their delicate tracery seeming to lie lovingly against the rich mellow tints of morocco and vellum; they waved from tall vases of crystal and porcelain; they spread their lace-like fronds in flat bowls and dishes. "I don't see how there can be any left," said Peggy; "it seems as if we had all the ferns in the world, and yet in the woods it didn't seem to make any difference. Oh, Jean, isn't it just splendid!"
"Corking!" said Jean.