Dawn OHara, The Girl Who Laughed | Page 9

was very still for a moment. Then the great Von Gerhard
came over, and took my hands gently from my face. "I--I do beg your
pardon," he said. He looked strangely boyish and uncomfortable as he
said it. "I was thinking only of your good. We do that, sometimes,
forgetting that circumstances may make our wishes impossible of
execution. So. You will forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Yes,indeed," I assured him. And we shook hands,
gravely. "But that doesn't help matters much, after all, does it?"
"Yes, it helps. For now we understand one another, is it not so? You
say you can only write for a living. Then why not write here at home?
Surely these years of newspaper work have given you a great
knowledge of human nature. Then too, there is your gift of humor.
Surely that is a combination which should make your work acceptable
to the magazines. Never in my life have I seen so many magazines as
here in the United States. But hundreds! Thousands!"
"Me!" I exploded--"A real writer lady! No more interviews with
actresses! No more slushy Sunday specials! No more teary tales! Oh,

my! When may I begin? To-morrow? You know I brought my
typewriter with me. I've almost forgotten where the letters are on the
keyboard."
"Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, perhaps. But first must
come other things outdoor things. Also housework."
"Housework!" I echoed, feebly.
"Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, a little sweeping, a little
cooking. The finest kind of indoor exercise. Later you may write a
little--but very little. Run and play out of doors with the children. When
I see you again you will have roses in your cheeks like the German
girls, yes?"
"Yes," I echoed, meekly, "I wonder how Frieda will like my
elephantine efforts at assisting with the housework. If she gives notice,
Norah will be lost to you."
But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped her clean the kitchen
and the pantry I noticed an expression of deepest pity overspreading her
lumpy features. The expression became almost one of agony as she
watched me roll out some noodles for soup, and delve into the sticky
mysteries of a new kind of cake.
Max says that for a poor working girl who hasn't had time to cultivate
the domestic graces, my cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at that,
and mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and citron hiding
a multitude of batter sins. She never allows the Spalpeens to eat my
cakes, and on my baking days they are usually sent from the table
howling. Norah declares, severely, that she is going to hide the Green
Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah bought it
in deference to Max's love of German cookery. It is called Aunt
Julchen's cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour and
butter, gets delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud,
rich cakes. She orders grandly:
"Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound of

almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of
orange-peel."
As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to trifles
like ounces of walnut meats, pounds of confectioner's sugar, and pints
of very rich cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing made up of
more eggs, more nuts, more cream, more everything.
The children have appointed themselves official lickers and scrapers of
the spoons and icing pans, also official guides on their auntie's walks.
They regard their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether
delightful old thing.
And Norah--bless her! looks up when I come in from a romp with the
Spalpeens and says: "Your cheeks are pink! Actually! And you're
losing a puff there at the back of your ear, and your hat's on crooked.
Oh, you are beginning to look your old self, Dawn dear!"
At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: "Pooh! What's a puff
more or less, in a worthy cause? And if you think my cheeks are pink
now, just wait until your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that
time they shall be so red and bursting that Frieda's, on wash day, will
look anemic by comparison. Say, Norah, how red are German red
cheeks, anyway?"

CHAPTER III
GOOD AS NEW
So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My pillows looked
less and less tempting. The wine of the northern air imparted a cocky
assurance. One blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours
together out of doors in the sunshine, lying full length on the warm,
sweet ground, to the horror of the entire neighborhood. To be sure, I
was sufficiently discreet