“I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish, though I haven't been allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement to cook in it, is there?”
“Nothing much, surely.”
“We might have some stuff sent out from the city, don't you think so?”
“Canned things?”
“Yes—anything that would keep.”
Aided and abetted by Winfield, she made out a list of articles which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village.
“I'll attend to the financial part of it,” he said, pocketing the list, “and then, my life will be in your hands.”
After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one—of making enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfield came up to dinner, and to do everything herself.
She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with new interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper clippings, from the despised “Woman's Page” in various journals.
Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.