Tabithas Vacation | Page 8

critical
stage of her gingerbread making, and though her first impulse was to
join in the search for the missing baby with the rest of her mates, her
thrifty bringing-up reminded her that in the meantime the cake would
spoil. So she paused long enough to dump in the cupful of raisins still
standing on the doorsill, where the seeders had been sitting at their task.
Giving the mixture a final beat, she poured the spicy brown dough into
the baking sheet, thrust it into the oven, adjusted the dampers, and
followed the example of the others, setting out down the rocky path as
rapidly as her lameness would permit.
Meanwhile, toiling up the steep trail on the other side of the house,
came a tiny, tired figure, almost ready to drop from her unusual
exertions. Her dress was torn in a dozen places where the cruel
mesquite had caught her as she passed, one shoe was unlaced, one
stocking hung in rolls about the plump, scratched ankle, she wore no
hat, and her fair hair was sadly tousled by the wind and her struggle
through sagebrush and Spanish bayonets. Altogether, she presented a
woeful spectacle; but in spite of it all, she clasped tightly in one chubby
fist, a soiled and crumpled letter, which every now and then she
examined critically, having discovered that the warmth and moisture of
her fat hands left tiny, smudgy fingerprints on the white envelope, and
being anxious to present a clean document to her wondering audience
when she should have reached her goal. But oh, it did seem so far up to
the Eagles' Nest, and the way was so rough for her little feet! Still she
kept plodding wearily along, and at length reached the end of her
journey, only to find the house silent and deserted.

"Mercy!" she piped shrilly, pushing open the screen and stumbling into
the hot kitchen. "I'se dot a letter! Where is you? Susie! Rossie!"
Still no answer. Puzzled at this unusual state of affairs, she raced from
room to room as fast as her short, tired legs would carry her, but no one
was there.
"Tabby!" she shrieked. "Dory! What did you leave me for?"
A panic seized her. She had been deserted! Tears gathered in her
sea-blue eyes, and trickled in rivulets down her flushed cheeks. She
was afraid to stay alone. Why had everyone left her? Back to the
kitchen she pattered. It was empty, but a fire still burned in the stove
and savory odors from the oven lured her on. Curiosity overcame her
fear for a moment, and with a mighty tug, she jerked open the door,
revealing Gloriana's gingerbread just done to a turn.
"Dingerbread!" cried the child, gloating over the huge, golden sheet
which smelled, oh, so good! "I want some now!" And forgetting that
the oven was hot, she seized the pan with both chubby fists, but
instantly let go her hold and roared with pain, for ten rosy fingers were
cruelly burned, and how they did smart!
Suddenly above the wail of her lusty voice came the sound of excited
voices and flying feet; and the next instant frightened Tabitha with her
adopted brood in close pursuit, flew into the kitchen, and gathered up
the hurt, sobbing baby in her arms, crooning tenderly, "There, there,
dearie, you mustn't cry any more. We've all come back. We were
hunting you. Where did you go?"
"Oh, see her hands!" cried Irene, shuddering in sympathy. "She has
burned herself!"
"But the gingerbread isn't burned at all," volunteered Susie with
satisfaction, after a keen and anxious scrutiny of the spicy loaf half-way
out of the oven.
"For goodness' sake!" ejaculated Tabitha, not having noticed the seared

fingers up to that moment, "What do you do for burns?"
"Bring some butter," ordered Gloriana, remembering Granny Conover's
first remedy for burns.
"Mamma uses molasses," said Irene; and Susie and Inez, recovering
their senses at the same instant, dived into the pantry, returning
immediately, one with a crock of butter in her hand, and the other
bearing a bucket of molasses; and before either of the older girls could
intervene, they plunged both of Janie's dirty, scorched hands first into
one dish and then into the other, leaving them to drip sticky puddles
down the front of Tabitha's dress and on to the clean kitchen floor.
"Why, you little monkeys!" gasped the senior housekeeper, forgetting
the dignity of her position in her wrath at what seemed inexcusable
carelessness on the part of the girls.
"Mamma always puts molasses on burns," quavered Inez, her lip
trembling at Tabitha's tone.
"And Glory said butter," surprised Susie defended. Then both culprits
dissolved in tears.
"There, there, never mind!" cried Tabitha in dismay. "I didn't mean to
scold, but you ought