"We have ever so many cook-books," suggested Polly. "Can't we do something with them?"

"I'm afraid they'd be tough, unless we boiled them a good while,"

giggled Molly. "But really, Poll, we can work out of them; try lots of new things, you know, to astonish your father. What does he like?"

"Welsh rarebit," responded Polly promptly; "and baked macaroni, and lemon pudding, and--"

"Not too much, Polly; we can't do all that at once. We'll try something new every meal. Oh, say! don't let's tell your father Mary has gone. We'll have dinner all ready when he comes, and not let him know that we cooked it ourselves, until he's eaten it.

Then we'll tell him and surprise him."

"Well," a.s.sented Polly, with a vague misgiving that her father might discover the change of cook; "I think it will be fun, Molly; and then, if we get hard up, there are plenty of crackers and preserves to fall back on."

"We shan't want them," said Molly scornfully. "I know we shall have a great deal better things to eat than if Mary stayed.

Servant girls are so unreliable!" she added, with a whimsical imitation of Aunt Jane's manner.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Polly, with decision, "we must not tell the girls or Alan, for if they knew about it, they would invite themselves to meals. If we cook for us three, that is all we can do."

"What if they come here to see us?" asked Molly.

"We'll lock the door and hide," replied Polly inhospitably. "There are times when company is a nuisance,--I don't mean you, Molly, for you are head housekeeper, and I couldn't get along without you. But come, we'll go up and put our room in order, while we are waiting for her to get out of the way."

At this very moment Mrs. Adams, one hundred and fifty miles away, was congratulating herself that she had left her little daughter with such a competent servant who, though far from amiable, yet was quite capable of taking the entire charge of the house during her absence. Perhaps it was just as well that she was not within hearing of the conversation which the girls had just been holding.

CHAPTER VII.

POLLY'S HOUSEKEEPING.

"I'm going now, miss," remarked Mary's voice at the foot of the front stairs.

"Go on, then," said Polly, with dignity, turning to Molly to add, "She wouldn't dare do that if mamma were here. Then she never thinks of calling to us, like this."

Peeping stealthily out at the front window, the girls watched her as she walked off, dressed in her state and festival suit. Then they descended to the kitchen to survey their field of operations.

"She's left it in splendid order, and there's a hot fire; that's one good thing," said Polly, lifting the stove lid to look in.

"With a fire and a cook-book, we can work wonders," said Molly.

"Now, Polly, let's plan."

"All right." And Polly sat down on the wood-box. "What shall we have for lunch? That comes first."

"I'll tell you," suggested Molly suddenly, as if struck with a brilliant idea; "let's not have much for lunch. Your father won't be here, so we can eat up whatever was left over from breakfast, and have all our time for the dinner."

"But 'tisn't time to get dinner now; it's only eleven o'clock,"

said Polly.

"Yes, it is time," returned Molly. "I want to try a lemon pudding for dessert, if he likes them, and it takes ever so much time, I know. We must feed him up well, so he won't look thin to your mother when, she gets back."

"Let's see how the oven is," said Polly, pulling open the door and peering in. "It feels nice and warm, so perhaps we'd better go to work."

"Where are your cook-books?" demanded Molly.

"Here." And Polly brought out a number of books and pamphlets. "We ought to find a rule in some of these."

Molly possessed herself of the largest.

"'Marion Holland'--no, 'Harland,'" she read. "Oh, I've heard of her! I'll look in this, and you take another. Let's see, where's the index? 'Soups--fish--poultry--meats--company.' Oh, where is it? 'Eggs--cake.' That sounds like it. 'Servants--puddings.' At last! 'Apple--cottage--cracker--lemon.' Here are two lemon puddings, Polly." And Molly glanced up to see Polly, with an anxious frown, reading intently from her own small book. She looked up, in her turn, to answer,--

"Here's another, so you read yours and then I'll read mine, and we'll see which we like best."

"'One cup of sugar, four eggs, two tablespoons cornstarch, two lemons, one pint milk, one tablespoon b.u.t.ter,'" read Molly. "You get your milk hot and put in the starch and boil five minutes-- Oh, there's a lot more to do! Just see here."

Both heads were bent over the book. Then Polly exclaimed,--

"Mine is easier, I know. Listen: 'A quarter of a pound of suet, half a pound of bread crumbs, four ounces of sugar, the juice of two lemons, the grated rind of one, and one egg. Boil it well in an _Agate_ pot, and serve with sauce.'"

There was an expressive pause.

"Yours is better, after all," said Polly. "I don't know what suet is, but I don't believe we have any; and besides, it's ever so much easier to measure cups than pounds."

The girls enveloped themselves in gingham ap.r.o.ns and set to work.

Polly rummaged in store-room and pantry, and brought out the necessary materials for the pudding, while Molly measured and mixed.

"Polly," she called suddenly, in a tone of distress. Polly put her head out from the pantry. Her face was decorated with coal-dust from the stove and flour from the barrel, but she was too intent upon her work to care for that.

"Well," she asked, "what's the matter?"

"There isn't enough cornstarch," said Molly, showing the empty paper.

"How much more do you need?" asked Polly, looking rather blank.

"Another spoonful," replied Molly; "and the milk is all boiling now, ready for it."

"I wish we had Alan here, to send for some," sighed Polly.

"There isn't time. Don't you suppose your mother has another package?" asked Molly, stirring the boiling milk in an excited fashion that sent occasional drops spattering and hissing over the stove.

"Perhaps she has." And Polly hurried away to the store-room, jingling her keys with a comical air of consequence.

She came flying back, in a moment, with a small package in her hand.

"I wonder if this won't do just as well," she said. "It's marked elastic starch, instead of cornstarch, but it looks ever so much like the other, and it's all there is, anyway."

Molly eyed it with little favor.

"It isn't just the same," she said thoughtfully; "but if we can't get anything else, we may as well use it. Here goes, anyway." And she added a heaping spoonful.