Mrs. Hurst disentangled these mingled confidences with the calmness of long practice.
“My phlox seeds are up, too,” she said. “What wouldn’t come up, in weather like this? Finish the cream, darling: I don’t want any more. I’ve made the butter, and there will be three pounds to take down to the store. Bessy is behaving nobly.”
Robin let the thick yellow cream trickle slowly over her porridge.
“Yes, isn’t she? Mr. Merritt was a brick to let us graze Bessy and Roany in the creek paddock—poor dears, they’re so used to it that they would have hated to be the wrong side of the fence!”
“It means a great deal to us,” Mrs. Hurst remarked. “Mr. Merritt is very kind: he said he would use Roany occasionally, to pay for their grazing, but I don’t think he has had him in the plough three times.”
“No, and it would really be better for Roany if he did use him—Roany is getting disgracefully fat and lazy. I think he’d be frisky if it weren’t so much bother. What is the heavenly aroma of cooking, Mummie?—you haven’t been extravagant, have you?”
“Only potato-puffs,” said Mrs. Hurst, emerging from the kitchen with a covered dish. “You were up so early, Robin, and you really need a good breakfast.”
“I always have a good breakfast,” stated her daughter. “Catch me going without! But those puffs are awfully exciting, Mummie.” She gazed fondly at the crisp golden balls as they smoked on her plate. “I wish I could fry things like you. No, not like you—you know what I mean.”
“So you will, when you have a little more practice. You are doing very well as a cook. What are your plans for this morning?”
“I am going to finish painting the front fence. I thought one coat would be enough, but it would be a better job with two. Isn’t it a mercy Uncle Donald bought paint by the gallon? I’ve enough to do ever so much more. What are you going to do, Mummie?”