“Well, Jo,” said her guest, when the doctor had gone, “that is a relief. An ordinary cold, it will be better in a day or two. Now let us set to work to get ready for the party.”
“Oh, dear Emily, what do you think? Shall we not rather put it off?”
“Put it off? and why? Come, Jo, what’s the matter with you? All the invitations are out already.”
“I’d like to have it for your sake,” Jo began again; “you know that, don’t you? But I am so tired! I never closed an eye last night; and there is so much to be done—baking, and all that.”
“Well,” said Emily, “surely your maid can help you?”
“Siah? Oh, no; she must stay with Njo—she’s his old ‘baboe.’[[45]] No, really, it can’t be managed. Oh, if you only knew how dead tired I am!” and the poor little woman sank into a chair, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the mountain of work that the mere thought of the party conjured up.
“If I undertook all the trouble,” asked Emily, after a moment’s reflection, “could we go on with it then?”
“Oh yes,” said Jo, “if you would be so very good.”
She was too much absorbed in her sick child to trouble herself much about the success of the party, else she would have been decidedly uneasy; for it had gradually dawned upon her that Emily did not know much of the noble art of cookery. Notwithstanding her great readiness to recommend dishes and to lend recipes, she had never yet concocted anything herself; and even when Jo had begged her to help with a few domestic duties on specially busy days, she had always tried to get out of it. To-day it was quite different, however.
She asked for the keys, and in ten minutes had all the “boys” and maids hard at work; while she herself was here, there, and everywhere, thinking of everything,—making cakes, planning the menu, and all with a deftness and briskness which were quite enviable.