“No, it’s noisy; and it doesn’t do the bread any good.”
“Such wisdom! I must tell Polly that. Now, what are you going to do? I suppose I ought to go. Aunt Julia’s neuralgia is very bad, and I must go to see her. Uncle Rodney and father and I are going there for dinner—a real Hoosier Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I haven’t forgiven you yet, but you may stay here and watch me bake a pie, if you like.”
“Pie! How exciting! There’s a rolling-pin in that. Let me do the rolling. I’ve always been crazy to work a roller and Polly won’t let me!”
“Well, there’s another apron in the closet. You may get that and put it on. It’s effective, too,” she added, as Zelda drew the apron over her short walking skirt and tied the strings at her waist. “I don’t think I can ever believe you again, after yesterday; but assuming that you sometimes tell the truth, tell me, honestly, did you ever make a pie?”
“Humiliating though it be, I must confess that I never, never did,” replied Zelda. “It’s the rolling that I’m interested in. Where do you keep the machine you do it with?”
“We are going to make this pie in a perfectly orderly manner. The rolling-pin comes in later; but we put all the things handy we’re going to need. You can weigh the butter, if you will be good. And you may measure the flour if you won’t spill it on the floor. Now you may work this up into dough. You’re doing splendidly.”
Olive sat down and mingled a lecture on pastry-cooking with a discussion of the opera of the evening before, until she was ready to intrust Zelda with the rolling-pin. The bell rang as Zelda seized the coveted implement and set to work.
“The postman, no doubt; you keep things going, while I answer the bell,”—and Olive ran away.
She was gone several minutes, and came back a little flushed from her encounter.