“Why do you fuss with it so? Why don’t you just dump it in the pan any old way? That’s the way I’d do.” But he loved to watch her pink-tipped fingers carefully shaping the loaves, nevertheless.
“Oh––because.”
“Good reason.”
“Well––the more you work it the better it is, just like everything else; and then––if you don’t make good-looking loaves, you’ll never have a handsome husband. Mother says so.” She tossed a stray lock from her eyes, and opening the oven door thrust in her arm. “My, but it’s hot! Why do you sit here in the heat? It’s a lot nicer on the porch in the rocker. Mother’s gone to town––and––”
“I’d rather sit here with you––thank you.” He spoke stiffly and waited. What could he say; what could he do next? She left him a moment and quickly returned with a cup of butter.
“You know––I’d stop and go out in the cool with you, Peter, but I must work this dough I have left into raised biscuit; and then I have to make a cake for to-morrow––and cookies––there’s something to do in this house, I tell you! How about to-morrow?”
“I don’t believe I’d better go. All the rest of the world will be there, and––”
“Only our little crowd. When I said everybody, you didn’t think I meant everybody in the whole world, did you? You know us all.”
“Do you want me to go? There’ll be enough others––”