Hepsibah Fields disarmed her at once. She could not tell why.
"This gingerbread is perfect," said Celia, an hour later, when Charlotte
had brought up her supper. "You are improving every day. But it frets me
not to have you come to me for help. I could plan things for you, and
teach you all the little I know. I'm doing so well now, the doctor says
I may get down-stairs on the couch by next week. Then you certainly must
let me do my part."
But Charlotte shook her head obstinately. "I'm going to fight it through
myself. I'd rather. You've enough to do--writing letters."
When Lanse came into Celia's room that evening, his first words were
merry.
"What I'm anxious to know," he said, "is what you did with your rice
pudding. Charlotte says you ate it--and the inference was that it was
good to eat. So I ate mine--manfully, I assure you. But it was a bitter
dose."
"Poor little girl! She tries so hard, Lanse. And the gingerbread was
very good."
"So it was. It helped take out the taste of the pudding. Did you
honestly eat that pudding?"
"See here." Celia beckoned him close.
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