To be sure, it was four o'clock in the afternoon, an hour
when kitchens are supposed to be in order, if ever, yet it was a relief
to Mrs. Fields to find this one in that condition. Brass faucets gleamed
in the afternoon sunlight, the teakettle steamed from a shining spout,
the linoleum-covered floor was spotless, and the table at which
Charlotte was stirring her gingerbread had been scrubbed until it was as
nearly white as pine boards can be made.
"Gingerbread?" said the housekeeper, lingering in the doorway. "I always
like to make that. It seems the biggest result for the smallest labour
of anything you can make, and it smells so spicy when it comes out of
the oven."
"Yes, when it isn't burned," agreed Charlotte, with a laugh. Things had
gone fairly well with her that day, and her spirits had risen
accordingly.
"Burning's a thing that will happen to the best cooks once in a while.
'Twas just day before yesterday I blacked a pumpkin pie so the doctor
poked his fun at me all the time he was eating it," said the
housekeeper, with a tactful disregard for the full truth, which was that
a refractory small patient in the office had driven the doctor to
require her assistance for a longer period than was consistent with
attention to her oven.
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