And with actually a bit of song on her lips, Billy skipped up-stairs for her ruffled apron and dust-cap--two necessary accompaniments to this dinner-getting, in her opinion.
Billy found the apron and dust-cap with no difficulty; but it took fully ten of her precious minutes to unearth from its obscure hiding-place the blue-and-gold ``Bride's Helper'' cookbook, one of Aunt Hannah's wedding gifts.
On the way to the kitchen, Billy planned her dinner. As was natural, perhaps, she chose the things she herself would like to eat.
``I won't attempt anything very elaborate,''
she said to herself. ``It would be wiser to have something ******, like chicken pie, perhaps. Ilove chicken pie! And I'll have oyster stew first --that is, after the grapefruit. Just oysters boiled in milk must be easier than soup to make.
I'll begin with grapefruit with a cherry in it, like Pete fixes it. Those don't have to be cooked, anyhow. I'll have fish--Bertram loves the fish course. Let me see, halibut, I guess, with egg sauce. I won't have any roast; nothing but the chicken pie. And I'll have squash and onions.
I can have a salad, easy--just lettuce and stuff.
That doesn't have to be cooked. Oh, and the peach fritters, if I get time to make them. For dessert--well, maybe I can find a new pie or pudding in the cookbook. I want to use that cookbook for something, after hunting all this time for it!''
In the kitchen Billy found exquisite neatness, and silence. The first brought an approving light to her eyes; but the second, for some unapparent reason, filled her heart with vague misgiving.
This feeling, however, Billy resolutely cast from her as she crossed the room, dropped her book on to the table, and turned toward the shining black stove.
There was an excellent fire. Glowing points of light showed that only a good draft was needed to make the whole mass of coal red-hot. Billy, however, did not know this. Her experience of fires was confined to burning wood in open grates --and wood in open grates had to be poked to make it red and glowing. With confident alacrity now, therefore, Billy caught up the poker, thrust it into the mass of coals and gave them a fine stirring up. Then she set back the lid of the stove and went to hunt up the ingredients for her dinner.
By the time Billy had searched five minutes and found no chicken, no oysters, and no halibut, it occurred to her that her larder was not, after all, an open market, and that one's provisions must be especially ordered to fit one's needs.
As to ordering them now--Billy glanced at the clock and shook her head.
``It's almost five, already, and they'd never get here in time,'' she sighed regretfully. ``I'll have to have something else.''
Billy looked now, not for what she wanted, but for what she could find. And she found: some cold roast lamb, at which she turned up her nose;an uncooked beefsteak, which she appropriated doubtfully; a raw turnip and a head of lettuce, which she hailed with glee; and some beets, potatoes, onions, and grapefruit, from all of which she took a generous supply. Thus laden she went back to the kitchen.
Spread upon the table they made a brave show.
``Oh, well, I'll have quite a dinner, after all,''
she triumphed, cocking her head happily. ``And now for the dessert,'' she finished, pouncing on the cookbook.
It was while she was turning the leaves to find the pies and puddings that she ran across the vegetables and found the word ``beets'' staring her in the face. Mechanically she read the line below.
``Winter beets will require three hours to cook.
Use hot water.''
Billy's startled eyes sought the clock.
Three hours--and it was five, now!
Frenziedly, then, she ran her finger down the page.
``Onions, one and one-half hours. Use hot water. Turnips require a long time, but if cut thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter.''
``An hour and a quarter, indeed!'' she moaned.
``Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't take forever to cook?''
