“Don't you know enough, without being told, to lift that kettle off the fire for Elmira?” demanded Mrs. Edwards of Jerome.
Jerome lifted the kettle off the fire without a word.
“It seems sometimes as if you might do something without being told,” said his mother. “You could see, if you had eyes to your head, that your sister wa'n't strong enough to lift that kettle off, and was dippin' it up so's to make it lighter, an' the stew 'most burnin' on.”
Jerome made no response. He sniffed hungrily at the savory steam arising from the kettle. “What is it?” he asked his sister, who stooped over the kettle sitting on the hearth, and plunged in again the long-handled tin dipper.
Mrs. Edwards never allowed any one to answer a question when she could do it herself. “It's a parsnip stew,” said she, sharply. “Elmira dug some up in the old garden-patch, where we thought they were dead. I put in a piece of pork, when I'd ought to have saved it. It's good 'nough for anybody, I don't care who 'tis, if it's Doctor Prescott, or Squire Merritt, or the minister. You'd better be thankful for it, both of you.”
“Where's father?” said Jerome.
“He 'ain't come home yet. I dun'no' where he is. He's been gone long enough to draw ten cords of wood. I s'pose he's potterin' round somewheres—stopped to talk to somebody, or something. I ain't going to wait any longer. He'll have to eat his dinner cold if he can't get home.”
Elmira put the dish of stew on the table. Jerome drew his chair up. Mrs. Edwards grasped the long-handled dipper preparatory to distributing the savory mess, then suddenly stopped and turned to Elmira.
“Elmira,” said she, “you go into the parlor an' git the china bowl with pink flowers on it, an' then you go to the chest in the spare bedroom an' get out one of them fine linen towels.”
“What for?” said Elmira, wonderingly.