Mrs. Wills took them to the hen-house, and told them where to look for eggs.

As Dimple had been there before, she knew where to look, and they soon made up the dozen.

The old duck followed them into the house, and was waddling after them into the shop, when Mrs. Wills with a "Shoo! Shoo!" drove her out.

"Now, Dallas girl, and Graham girl," said Mrs. Wills, "does the mother need anything else to-day?"

"There was something else," said Dimple, "but I can't think what. Can you, Florence?"

"There were four things, I know," said Florence. "But I don't remember the fourth."

"A--apples, B--brooms, C--crackers, D--dust-pans," went on Mrs. Wills, rapidly, and then paused.

"No; not any of those," said Dimple.

"E--extract," said Mrs. Wills.

"Yes, that's it. You have guessed, Mrs. Wills, vanilla, please."

"E--extract, E--extract," said the old woman, as she hunted in a dark corner.

"And C--cocoanut cakes. Red or white?" she asked, opening the case.

"White," said Dimple. "But Mrs. Wills----"

"Tut! Tut! Don't you say it; don't you say it, or I'll take back my eggs," she said, as she handed each of the children a cake.

"Thank you, Mrs. Wills. When I'm grown-up I'll make you a great big cake and send it to you," said Dimple.

That pleased the old woman mightily, and she nodded good-bye to them, saying, "Lemons, eggs and extract," over and over to herself.

"What a ridiculous old woman!" said Florence. "Is she crazy?"

"No," said Dimple. "But she is queer. She is good, though, and mamma always buys everything from her that she can, and she feels so bad if I don't take the things she offers me that I have to accept them."

"What is the matter with her hand?"

"She burned it trying to save her child from burning."

"Did she save it?"

"No; and that is what makes her so queer. She has never been the same since."

"My! how warm it is getting," said Florence. "I am glad we have broad brimmed hats. Let's hurry home. There is your Mrs. Brown again."

"Oh, dear!" said Dimple. "Let us turn up this street; it is just as near to go home this way." So they turned the corner and reached home before Mrs. Brown knew which way they had gone.

"Suppose we watch Sylvy make cake," said Dimple, when they had delivered their packages. "She always lets me watch her. And then we can sc.r.a.pe the bowl. Don't you like to?"

"I never do at home," said Florence. "Our cook is so cross and mamma does not like me to go into the kitchen."

"My mamma doesn't care; she lets me go whenever I please, and sometimes I help Bubbles clean knives and do such things, so she can get through, and play with me sooner."

"Sylvy, we are coming to watch you make cake; may we?"

"I'm not a carin'!" said Sylvy. "Git 'round on the other side of the table."

"See her break the eggs," said Florence. "Could you do it, Dimple? I'd be sure to get the yolks all mixed with the whites, and she just turns one half into the other as easily."

"I'd be afraid to try," said Dimple; "but when I am a little bigger, I mean to make a cake myself. I believe I could now if I had some one to tell me."

"I wouldn't try just yet," said Sylvy, briskly beating the whites of the eggs to a froth.

"Could you, Sylvy, when you were a little girl?" asked Florence.

"Laws, no. I was nigh as big as I am now, and then I made a poor fist at it," said Sylvy, laughing at the recollection.

"What was the matter?" asked Dimple.

"Too much b.u.t.ter and sugar, and not enough flour; it rose up beautiful at first and then down it went; when I took it out of the oven it was like taffy. I felt plum bad, I tell you; but I did better next time;" so saying, she turned her cake into the pans and giving each of the children a spoon, bade them take the bowl between them out on the steps, and "lick" to their hearts' content.

"You aren't going to make another cake right away, are you, Sylvy?"

asked Dimple, looking up from her bowl. "And--oh, Florence, see all those turnovers. Are you really going to make another cake, Sylvy?"

"Ya.s.s, miss, some suveral of 'em."

"What for?"

"Yo' ma done tole me to," replied Sylvy, with a smile.

"I'm going to ask her about it. I know she doesn't intend we shall eat them all. Perhaps there is going to be a church supper, or a strawberry festival, or something. Come on, Florence, let's go and see about it."

And throwing down their spoons, they went to hunt up Mrs. Dallas.

They found her in the dining-room, making salad dressing, and upon the table was a newly-boiled ham, and a quant.i.ty of chopped chicken.

"There, now, mamma is doing something about eating, too," exclaimed Dimple. "I'd just like to know what it is all for. Won't you tell us, mamma? Are you going to have a tea or anything like that?"

"Not exactly like that; but we are going on a picnic."

"Oh! oh! a picnic! Tell us, mamma. Who is going? Are we children to go?"

"Yes. You children, Mrs. Hardy and Rock, the Spears, the Neals, and the Jacksons. Mr. Atkinson, too, I think."

"Which Jacksons?"

"Mr. David Jackson's family. Mr. Atkinson is not sure of being here, but he hopes to be able to get off."

"Oh, good! Tell us some more, mamma."