"Yes; and the work has gone better than I had hoped," declared Celia,
whisking a tinful of plump rolls into the oven. "It's really fun."
"I'm glad you like it."
"Poor child," said Celia, pausing to glance at the dejected figure in
the chair, its dark curls a riot of disorder, a smudge of black upon its
forehead, and its pinafore disreputable with frequent use as a duster,
"I gave you too much to do! Didn't I hear you in Delia's room? You
needn't have touched that to-day."
"Wanted to get through with it. Delia may be a good cook, but she left a
mess of a closet up-stairs. Please give me one of those warm cookies.
I'm so used up and hungry I can't wait for supper."
"Justin came in half an hour ago so famished there wouldn't have been a
cookie left if I hadn't filled him up with a banana. By the way, I sent
him down cellar after some peach pickles, and I haven't seen him since.
I'll run down and get some. I've hot rolls and honey for supper, and
Lanse always wants peach pickles with that combination."
Celia took a bowl from the cupboard, opened the cellar door and started
down, turning on the second step to say:
"Go and take a bath and put on a fresh frock; you won't feel half so
tired.
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