* * * * *
CHAPTER IV
Coming down-stairs from Celia's room, Dr. Andrew Churchill made his way
through what had now become somewhat familiar ground to the little
kitchen. As he looked in at the door he beheld a slim figure in a big
Turkey-red apron, bending over a chicken which lay, in a state of
semi-dissection, upon the table. As he watched for a moment without
speaking, Charlotte herself spoke, without turning round.
"You horrid thing!" she said, tragically, to the chicken. "I hate
you--all slippery and bloody. Ugh! Why won't your old windpipe come out?
How anybody can eat you who has got you ready I don't know!"
"May I bother you for a pitcher of hot water?" asked an even voice from
the doorway.
Charlotte turned with a start. Her cheeks, already flushed, took on a
still ruddier hue.
"Yes, if you'll please help yourself," she answered, curtly, turning
back to her work. "I am--engaged."
"I see. A congenial task?"
"Very!" Charlotte's tone was expressive.
"Did I gather that the fowl's windpipe was the special cause of your
distress?" asked the even voice again.
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