"M-m-m," she murmured, just as Frances had done. "That is good. There's preserved ginger in it, too, and I think there's just a taste of baked apples. Oh! Isn't it a funny feeling!"—stretching out her arms and dancing about—"I wonder if I could jump up to the ceiling like you did."
But she found she could not; though to jump over a big settee in the middle of the room was the easiest thing possible.
"Oh, how nice it is to be so light-footed!" she cried. "One bubble is just enough, Frances; that was a good idea of yours. But what are we going to do to make you a bit heavier? There are no stones here to put into your pockets; and you have only one pocket, anyhow. You'd be all lopsided. You'll have to eat something. That's the only way I see."
"Yes," responded Frances, "that's the only way; and what we need is something heavy, like that little loaf of bread you and I made once for Daddy, don't you remember, and he begged to be excused, because home-made bread sometimes gave him the nightmare, and so we gave it to Kim—that time he howled so in the night, and Daddy had to get up and throw his hair-brush at him."
"Yes, I remember," replied her sister. "That's the sort of thing we want. Let's look at the list here and see if there's anything likely to do. Ah! 'Pound cake'! That ought to be just the thing."
"Pound cake is rather rich, isn't it?" asked Frances.
"I'm afraid it is. Well, here's 'Half-pound cake, for infants and invalids.' The very thing. We'll have that."
She touched the button; open flew the cupboard, and there inside it was a neat little cake with a silver knife to cut it.
"Now," said Margaret, cutting a slice and handing it to her sister. "Eat that and see if it will do."
Still holding to the table for fear she should bob up again to the ceiling unexpectedly, Frances ate about half the slice, when she laid down the rest, remarking: