What Two Children Did | Page 9

not, momsey, for I've my heart
chock full of dolls now, and it will be so good to have Dick and others
well and comfyble."
Ethelwyn came a moment later.
"It's all right, mother," she said, also climbing up to her place. "I can
make pictures with a pencil more easily than I can bear to think that
Dick needs my camera money, I'll be glad to do it, mother."
But Ethelwyn's voice was hoarse, and the next morning she was not
well enough to go to town.

CHAPTER VII The Secret
Such fun to have a secret! To tell one too is fun. But then there is no
secret That's known to more than one.
Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother
and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp
ball of a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and
by she heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at
once sitting up.
"Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn
rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.
"O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried.
"And nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if
any one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly

well, you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all."
"Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work
together. Let me tie this apron around you."
Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and
rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.
"O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be
Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.
"Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate."
This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not at
all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.
"Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.
"A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and flour--then
the crust won't soak. Now the apples. Sugar them well. Put any of these
spices on that you wish."
"I like the taste of cinnamon, and spice-oil, but nutmegs are so cunning
to grate. I b'lieve I'll put 'em all in," said Ethelwyn, critically studying
the spice shakers.
"Now dot the apples over with butter, a dash of cold water, and a
sprinkle of flour. Now roll out your top crust. Cut little slits for it to
breathe through; pinch the two crusts together, after you have wet your
finger and thumb in cold water. There! now it is ready to go in the
oven."
"O isn't it sweet?" said Ethelwyn. "Nobody can cook like you, Aunty
Stevens. Nobody. I think it's a great--great appomplishment."
"Thank you, dear. Now sit down, and when I have cleaned up things a
little, we'll go out on the west porch, and I am going to tell you
something. I have saved it for a secret for the little girl who couldn't go
to town to-day, but who gave up her birthday presents for the sake of

others."
"O goody," said Ethelwyn, beaming with joy. "Next to cooking, I love
to hear secrets. And would you mind telling me a thing or two, I have
been thinking about lately? I have been meaning to ask mother about it.
You know in church we say we believe in the resurrection of the body.
Well, what do you s'pose," leaning forward impressively--"becomes of
the bodies the cannibals eat?"
"Well, Ethelwyn," said Mrs. Stevens with a gasp. "I suppose it's no
harder than to resurrect them from anywhere else."
"O yes, I should think so," said Ethelwyn earnestly, "because they'd get
dreadfully mixed up in themselves. But never mind. I suppose the Lord
can manage it."
Aunty Stevens and she then went out on the porch that faced the sea.
"O now I'm going to hear the secret," said Ethelwyn, sitting down on
the arm of the chair. "And my own pie is in the oven baking. Aren't we
having a good time, Aunty Stevens?"
"Yes, we are," said Aunty Stevens, hugging her. "And now I am going
to tell you. I'm afraid, deary, that I have been a very selfish woman.
When my husband died, I felt as though I had nothing to live for but
Dorothy, and when she too went away, I felt that there was no use in
living. The other evening when I heard you all planning for others,