The Four Corners

However, she rose to the occasion. "They won't show when I've covered them with the fried eggs," she declared. "Dear me, Mary Lee, I'll never lift the eggs without breaking them. I'll have to let them cook more, I reckon. Hand me the cake-turner, please; maybe I can do better with that, and won't you look at the biscuits? They ought to be done by this time."

Mary Lee announced that they looked done.

"Try the potatoes."

A squeal from Mary Lee followed this operation, for she squeezed one potato too hard and it burst with a pop, burning her thumb.

Nan dressed the burn with a plaster of baking soda and dished up the potatoes herself. "Where's Jean?" she asked.

"She put on her best frock and is in the living-room entertaining the gentlemen," returned Mary Lee. "It's time Jack came back, don't you think, Nan?"

"High time," returned Nan, carefully transferring the rest of the eggs from pan to dish. "I've only broken one, Mary Lee, and the bacon is quite covered. Everything is nearly ready, but, oh, dear, how does any one ever do it quickly and easily? It is impossible to keep your mind on bacon and eggs and biscuits and potatoes all at once, and how any one remembers more than that is beyond me. There, we came near forgetting the peaches. Get them out of the pantry, and bring some fine sugar to put over them."

"It's getting pretty late," remarked Mary Lee, looking down the street, "but here comes Jack at last."

"I know it's late and I expect those boys are starved, but I can't help it; I've done my best."

"I should think you had," said Mary Lee; "you oughtn't to have had so much."

"I'm sorry I had potatoes, for they made you burn yourself. Well, Jack," as that young person entered the kitchen mud-stained and tearful, "what have you been doing? What is the matter?"

Jack held out a flattened parcel. "I fell down," she sobbed, "and I fell plumb on the cake."

"Goodness!" cried Nan. "Do see, Mary Lee, if it's fit to eat. I can't, for my hands are all peach juice from cutting up the peaches. Did you hurt yourself, Jack?"

"I hurt my feelings awfully, 'cause I spoiled the cake."

Mary Lee anxiously examined the contents of the parcel. The cake, fortunately, had been sent on a tin plate, which saved it from utter destruction. "It is quite good in places," she declared. "We'll put the mashed pieces underneath."

Nan laughed in spite of fatigue and anxiety. "Then it will match the dish of bacon," she said. "Never mind, Jack, you did your best and we are much obliged to you; the cake will taste good and we girls can eat the flat pieces. Now, are we all ready?"

"I think so," said Mary Lee, nursing her injured thumb. And the flushed and anxious housekeeper arranged her dishes upon the carefully set table.

"It looks beautiful," said Jack.

"I'm glad you thought of the flowers for the middle of the table, Mary Lee," remarked Nan, who was critically examining her board. "Yes, I think it looks very well. Now, I'll go and call them."

The meal went off fairly well in spite of the chunks of bacon and the mashed cake. To be sure, it was rather a solemn affair. Conversation flagged, for both boys and girls felt ill at ease. Nan was covered with confusion when she tasted her biscuits, and was obliged to excuse herself when she suddenly remembered the tomatoes which she had sliced and placed on the ice and when she caught an odor of burning bread. She rescued the last pan of biscuits just in time, only one or two having burned at the bottom.

After supper there was the task of clearing away, and when this was over and the last dish safely put away, it was a tired Nan who sent her sisters off to bed and sat waiting for the boys who had gone out to have a look at the town. There was no hope of seeing Aunt Sarah that night, for the last train was in, and Nan curled herself up in her mother's big chair by the window, feeling quite desperate when she thought of breakfast without the help of either Mitty or Aunt Sarah.

After the boys had returned and Nan was at last lying by Mary Lee, the very thought of the dear absent one sent the tears coursing down her cheeks, so that the pillow her mother's head had so often pressed was wet before the tired child fell asleep. It began to rain again, and all through the night the sound of the pattering drops made Nan dream that her mother was weeping, and longing for home and children.

CHAPTER VI

CONCERNING JACK

The consciousness of her responsibilities made Nan awaken with a start quite early in the morning. After her festivities, Mitty could not be expected to appear before nine o'clock, consequently, the matter of breakfast depended entirely upon Nan. She was sufficiently rested after her night's sleep to look upon the day's prospects with more calmness than had seemed possible the night before. The storm had passed; all the fears and dreams vanished in the sunshine. The whole world appeared fairer. The heavy rain had washed the dust from the leaves; the grass sprang up in livelier green; the morning-glories over the porch were fresh and beautiful; the very earth looked refreshed. Birds were singing in the bushes; a rooster was lustily crowing from a fence rail.

"It has cleared off beautifully," said Nan as she opened the kitchen door to look out. "Good morning, Lady Gray," she greeted the big cat which came purring to rub against her. "I hope my stormy time is over, too," she went on. "It certainly was a gray day yesterday, but to-day Aunt Sarah will surely come and Mitty will be back, so there is only breakfast to trouble me. I haven't the least idea what I ought to have, or, I should say, what I can have. I thought Aunt Sarah would be here to decide all such things. I can't have bacon and eggs again! Unc' Landy! Ah, Unc' Landy!" she called to the old man who was just issuing from his cabin.

He came toward her. "Mawnin,' miss," he said, taking off his battered hat with a bow. "Fine day arter de rain."

"It is indeed. Unc' Landy, I want you to cut some slices of ham for me."

"Yass, miss. Whar dat Mitty?"

"Now you know Mitty won't get back till nine o'clock. She never does after a festival or a picnic or a parlor social, as she calls it. She is too sleepy after staying up half the night."

"Po' miserble sinnah," grumbled Unc' Landy. "Bad man git her suah ef her foots keep on a-twitchen' when de banjo play."

"Oh, Mitty is all right," returned Nan smiling. "You are too hard on her, Unc' Landy."

"'Tain' no use talkin' to dese yer light-haided young uns," he replied. "Yuh jest bleedged to beat erligion inter 'em. Dey foots is on de broad road to destruction, and yuh bleedged to drive 'em back wid er stick, jest lak a sheep er a heifer er a pig when dey gits outer de parf. How much ham yuh reckon yuh wants, honey?"

"Oh, a couple of slices. I suppose you can tell how long to cook it. I had an awful time with my supper last night, and it wasn't very good after all. I forgot to put salt in the biscuits and the bacon was chunky."

"Whafo' yuh mek any fuss jest fo' yuh-alls?" said Unc' Landy. "Why yuh don' jest picnic till yo' Aunt Sarah come? 'Tain' no diffunce ef yuh chilluns ain' got a comp'ny brekfus."

"But it is a difference when we have two strangers."

"Strangers? Who dey?" Unc' Landy looked greatly surprised.

"The Gordon boys, Randolph and Ashby. They were to have come to-day, you know, but they got here yesterday instead."

"Law, honey, is dat so? An' de ole man ain' on han' to he'p yuh-alls out when dat fool chile Mitty away. Now, ain' dat scan'lous fo' Unc' Landy git ketched in de rain an' not git home in time fo' suppah? I clar it righ down owdacious. Nemmine, don' yuh werry, chile, I fix yo' brekfus. What yuh reckon yuh have?"

"Ham; you know I asked you to cut it."

"Brile ham. Yes'm, and a pone, aig pone. How dat do?"

"I used all the eggs last night."

"Dey mo' in de hen-house, I reckon. I git 'em. Coffee, yuh bleedged ter have a good cup of coffee."

"Well, yes, I suppose Randolph drinks it and maybe Ashby does. We'll have it, anyhow."

"Might fry some taters, er tomats," suggested Unc' Landy.

"Yes, they would be good."

"Den go 'long an' set de table, honey, whilst I git de aigs, an' den' yuh come tell ole Landy whar things is an' he git yo' brekfus. He cook, yass 'm, dat he kin. He domeskit, Landy are." And chuckling at this self praise the old man jogged down to the hen-house while Nan flew to set the table, greatly relieved at having so capable an assistant.

The breakfast turned out to be all it should. The ham was cooked to a turn; the egg pone, light and puffy, came to the table hot and delicious; the coffee was perfect; the tomatoes fried brown and surrounded by a tempting gravy. Nan tried to make conversation and her sisters ably assisted her, but the boys were not very responsive, though Nan concluded it was shyness and not pride which prevented them from being more talkative. They escaped as soon as the meal was over and Nan drew a sigh of relief. "They certainly aren't very good company," she remarked. "Jean seems the only one they will have anything to say to."

"You forget she dressed up in her best and entertained them yesterday," said Mary Lee, laughing. "What did you talk about, kitten?"

"Oh, fings to eat, and – and horses and – dogs."