And at that Father would knit his brows and put one finger to one side of his nose, so that he could think the harder, and by-and-by he would say:
"I know. I'll bet it's custard."
"Oh no, Father," you broke in, for you liked pie best, and even to admit the possibility of custard, aloud, might make it come true.
"Then it's lemon jelly with cream," said Father, trying another finger to his nose and pondering deeply.
"Oh, you only have one guess," cried you and Lizbeth together, and Father, cornered, stuck to the jelly and cream.
"Oh, dear," Lizbeth said, "I don't see what good it does to brush off the crumbs in the middle of dinner."
Silence fell upon the table, you and Lizbeth holding Father's outstretched hands. Your eyes were wide, the better to see. Your lips were parted, the better, doubtless, to hear. Only Mother was serene, for only Mother knew. And then through the stillness came the sound of rattling plates.
"Pie," you whispered.
"Pudding," whispered Lizbeth.
"Jelly," whispered Father, hoarsely.