CHAPTER XIV.
OVER THE JAM-POTS.
One bright September morning Hildegarde was sitting in the dining-room, covering jam-pots. She had made the jam herself—peach marmalade it was, the best in the world, all golden-brown, like clear old amber—a day or two before, and now it was firm enough to cover. At her right hand was a pile of covers, thick white paper cut neatly in rounds, a saucer full of white of egg, another full of brandy, an inkstand and pen. At her left was an open book, and a large rosy apple. She worked away busily with deft fingers, only stopping now and then for a moment to nibble her apple. First a small cover wet in brandy, fitting neatly inside the jar; then a large cover brushed over with white of egg, which, when dry, would make the paper stiff, and at the same time fasten it securely round the jar. And all the time she was murmuring to herself, with an occasional glance at the volume beside her,—
"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting,
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus.'"
Here she stopped to write on several jars the paper on which was dry and hard; a bite at her apple, and she continued,—
"'By the earth-shaking Neptune's crook'—"
"No," glancing at the book. "Why do I always get that wrong?
"'By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave majestic pace;
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian'—"