" Ordered to rest, poor Brownie
had stoutly refused--was there not more baking to be done, impossible to
put off, to say nothing of the jam? A brisk engagement had ensued, from
which Norah had emerged victorious, the reins of government in her
hands for the day. Brownie, still protesting, had been put on her bed
with a handkerchief steeped in eau-de-Cologne on her throbbing
forehead, and Norah had returned to the kitchen to varied occupations.
The jam had behaved beautifully; had "jelled" in the most satisfactory
manner, just the right colour; now it stood in a neat array of jars on
a side table, waiting to be sealed and labelled when cold. Then, after
lunch, Norah had plunged into the mysteries of pastry, and was
considerably relieved when her mince pies turned out very closely akin
to those of Brownie, which were famous. Puddings for dinner had
followed, and were now cooling in the dairy. Finally, the joint being
in the oven, and vegetables prepared, the cook had compounded Jim's
favourite cake, which was now baking; during which delicate operation,
with a large dab of flour on her nose, the cook sat at the table, and
wrote a letter.
"DEAR OLD JIM,--This must be in pencil, 'cause I'm watching a cake
that's in the oven, and I'm awfully scared of it burning, so I don't
dare to go for the ink.
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