The brisk chatter and laughter, which by now had prevaded the big place, ceased as by a preconcerted signal, and a dozen women gathered about the table toward which Mrs. Solomon Black was moving like the central figure in some stately pageant.
“Fer pity sake!” whispered Mrs. Mixter, “what d’ you s’pose she’s got under all that tissue paper?”
Mrs. Solomon Black set the great cake, still veiled, in the middle of the table; then she straightened herself and looked from one to the other of the eager, curious faces gathered around.
“There!” she said. “I feel now ’s ’o’ I could dror m’ breath once more. I ain’t joggled it once, so’s t’ hurt, since I started from home.”
Then slowly she withdrew the shrouding tissue paper from the creation she had thus triumphantly borne to its place of honor, and stood off, a little to one side, her face one broad smile of satisfaction.
“Fer goodness’ sake!”
“Did you ev—er!”
“Why, Mis’ Black!”
“Ain’t that just—”
“You never done that all yourself?”