"My good mother taught me when I was about your age, my dear. You may watch me to-morrow, and perhaps you will learn how to make them. It is never too early to begin to learn to cook."
"When the city girls get through school, they go away from home and study housekeeping don't they?" asked Gretchen.
"Yes, and many girls who don't live in cities. But I hardly think you will ever be sent away. We are busy people here in our little village, and you will have to be contented with learning what your mother can teach you.
"I shall be satisfied with that, I know. But listen! I can hear father and Hans coming."
"Then put up your work, children, and set the supper-table."
The girls jumped up and hurriedly put the presents away. It did not take long to set the supper-table, for the meals in this little home were very simple, and supper was the simplest of all. A large plate of black bread and a pitcher of sour milk were brought by the mother, and the family gathered around the table.
The bread wasn't really black, of course. It was dark brown and very coarse. It was made of rye meal. Bertha and Gretchen had never seen any white bread in their lives, for they had never yet been far away from their own little village. Neither had their brother Hans.
They were happy, healthy children. They all had blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and fair hair, like their father and mother.
"You don't know what I've got for you, Hans," said Bertha, laughing and showing a sweet little dimple in her chin.
Hans bent down and kissed her. He never could resist that dimple, and Bertha was his favourite sister.