“A cookery-book!” cried the maid. “Many a time I saw one out in Colonsay; for the minister's wife had one they called Meg Dods, that was borrowed for every wedding. But it was never much use to us, for it started everything with, 'Take a clean dish,' or 'Mince a remains of chicken,' and neither of them was very handy out in the isle of Colonsay.”
Miss Bell laid out her cuttings on the dresser—a mighty pile of recipes for soups and stews, puddings and cakes, sweetmeats, and cordial wines that could be made deliciously from elder and mulberry, if hereabouts we had such fruits to make them with. She had been gathering these scraps for many years, for the household column was her favorite part of the paper after she was done with the bits that showed how Scotsmen up in London were at the head of everything or did some doughty deed on the field of war. She hoarded her cuttings as a miser hoards his notes, but never could find the rich Sultana cake that took nine eggs when it was wanted, but only the plain one costing about one-and-six. Sometimes Ailie would, in mischief, offer to look through the packet for recipes rich and rare that had been mentioned; they were certainly there (for Bell had read them gloatingly aloud when she cut them out), but Bell would never let her do it, always saying, “Tuts! never mind; Dan likes this one better, and the other may be very nice in print but it's too rich to be wholesome, and it costs a bonny penny. You can read in the papers any day there's nothing better for the health than simple dieting.” So it was that Mr. Dyce had some monotony in his meals, but luckily was a man who never minded that, liking simple, old friends best in his bill of fare as in his boots and coats and personal acquaintances. Sometimes he would quiz her about her favorite literature, pretending a gourmet's interest for her first attempt at something beyond the ordinary, but never relished any the less her unvarying famous kale and simple entremets, keeping his highest praise for her remarkable breakfasts. “I don't know whether you're improving or whether I am getting used to it,” he would say, “but that's fish! if you please, Miss Bell.”
“Try another scone, Dan,” she would urge, to hide the confusion that his praise created. “I'm sure you're hungry.”
“No, not hungry,” would he reply, “but, thank Providence, I'm greedy—pass the plate.”
Bell was busy at her cookery lesson, making her cuttings fill the part of the book that was still to buy, doing all she could to make Bud see how noble was a proper crimpy paste, though her lesson was cunningly designed to look like one for Kate alone. Her sleeves were rolled up, and the flour was flying, when a rat-tat came to the door. They looked up from their entrancing occupation, and there, in front, was the castle carriage!
Miss Bell made moan. “Mercy on us! That 'll be Lady Anne, and Ailie out, and I cannot go to speak to anybody, for I'm such a ticket. Run to the door, dear, and take her into the parlor, and keep her there till I am ready. Don't forget to say 'My lady'—No, don't say 'My lady,' for the Dyces are of old, and as good as their neighbors, but say 'Your ladyship'—not too often, but only now and then, to let her see you know it.”
Bud went to the door and let in Lady Anne, leading her composedly to the parlor.
“Aunt Ailie's out,” she said, “and Aunt Bell is such a ticket. But she's coming in a minute, your—your—your—” Bud paused for a second, a little embarrassed.
“I forget which it was I was to say. It was either 'Your ladyship' or 'My lady.' You're not my lady, really, and you're not your own, hardly, seeing you're promised to Colonel George. Please tell me which is right, Lady Anne.”
“Who told you it was Colonel George, my dear?” asked Lady Anne, sitting down on the proffered chair and putting her arms around the child.