"Oh yes. I forgot the ginger, to be sure. How much?"
"That's 'cordin' as you like it. That won't hardly taste, dear; 'tain't just like red pepper; take a good cupful. Now just a little bit of cloves!"
"And cinnamon?"
"It'll be spice gingerbread, sure enough," said the housekeeper. "And salt, Tilly."
"Salt? Must salt go in?" said Matilda, who had got very eager now in her work.
"Salt's univarsal," said Miss Redwood. "'Cept sweetmeats, it goes into everything. That's what makes all the rest good. I never could see what was the use o' salt, till one day the minister, he preached a sermon on 'Ye are the salt of the earth,' and ever since that it seems to kind o' put me in mind. And then I asked Mr. Richmond if everything meant something."
"But what does that mean, that you said?" said Matilda. "Good people don't make the rest of the world good."
"They give all the taste there is to it, though," said the housekeeper. "And I asked that very question myself of the minister; and what do you think he told me."
"What?"
"He said it was because the salt warn't of as good quality as it had ought to be. And that makes me think, too. But la! look at your gingerbread standing still. Now see, dear here's a bowl o' buttermilk for you; it's as rich as cream, a'most; and I take and put in a spoonful of—you know what this is?"