"Oh, no, you won't, Auntie!" said Hildegarde.
"Well, now, you'll see. Miss Hildy chile! I had 'nuff ob dat woman. Ole barn-cat, comin' snoopin' round here to see what she can git out'n you and yer ma, 'cause she sees yer like two chillen. What yer want for supper, honey, waffles, or corn-pone?"
"Waffles," said Hildegarde, with decision. "But—Auntie, what have you there? No, not the pitcher; those little tin things that you just laid down. I want to see them, please."
"I been rummagin' dis shelf," said Auntie. "I put a lot ob odd concerns up here,—foun' em in de place when we come,—and dey ain't no good, and I want de room. Dose? Dem's little moulds, I reckon. Well, now, I don't seem as if I noticed dem before. Kin' o' pretty, ain't dey, honey?"
She handed down a set of tin moulds, of fairy size and quaint, pretty shapes. Tulips, lilies, crocuses,—"Why, it is a tin flower-bed!" cried Hildegarde. "Why did you never show me these before, Auntie?"
But Auntie was not conscious of having noticed them before. She had cleaned them,—of course,—but her mind must have been on her cooking, and she did not remember them.
"And what could one do with them?" Hildegarde went on. "Oh, see! here is a scrap of parchment fastened to the ring of one of them. 'The moulds for the almond cakes. The receipt is in the manuscript book with yellow covers.' Why, how interesting this is! Almond cakes! It sounds delightful! Do you remember where I put that queer old book, Auntie? You thought the receipts so extravagant that I have not used it at all. Oh! here it is, in your table-drawer. I might have been sure that you would know exactly where it was. Now let us see. This may be a special providence, Auntie."
"I don't unnerstand what you talkin' 'bout, chile," said Auntie, good-naturedly. "I made you almond cake last week, and I guess dat was good 'nuff, 'thout lookin' in de grandmother books. But you can see,—mebbe you find somethin' different."
Hildegarde was already deep in the old manuscript book. Its leaves were yellow with age, the ink faded, but the receipts were perfectly legible, many of the later ones being in Miss Barbara Aytoun's fine, crabbed, yet plain hand.
"'Bubble and Squeak!' Auntie, I wish you would give us Bubble and Squeak for dinner some day. You are to make it of cold beef, and then at the end of the receipt she tells you that pork is much better.—'China Chilo! Mince a pint basin of undressed neck of mutton'—How is one to mince a basin, do you suppose? I should have to drop it from the roof of the house, and then it would not be fine enough.—'Serve it fried of a beautiful colour'—no! that's not it!—'Pigs' feet. Wash your feet thoroughly, and boil, or rather stew them gently'—Miss Barbara, I am surprised at you!—'Ramakins'—those might be good. 'Excellent Negus'—ah! here we are! 'Almond cakes!' H'm! 'Beat a pound of almonds fine'—and a pleasant thing it is to do—'with rose water—half a pound of sifted sugar—beat with a spoon'—ah, this is the part I was looking for, Auntie! 'Bake them in the flower-moulds, watching carefully; when a beautiful light gold colour, take them out, and fill when cold with cream into which is beat shredded peaches or apricots.' O—oh! doesn't that sound good, Auntie?"