When Miss Roberta went into the store-room, it was Peggy, who, under the
supervision of her mistress, measured out the fine white flour for the
biscuits for supper. Peggy was being educated to do these things
properly, and she knew exactly how many times the tin scoop must fill
itself in the barrel for the ordinary needs of the family. Miss Roberta
stood, her eyes contemplatively raised to the narrow window, through
which she could see a flush of sunset mingling itself with the outer
air; and Peggy scooped once, twice, thrice, four times; then she
stopped, and, raising her head, there came into the far-away gloom of
her eyes a quick sparkle like a flash of black lightning. She made
another and entirely supplementary scoop, and then she stopped, and let
the tin utensil fall into the barrel with a gentle thud.

"That will do," said Miss Roberta.

That night, when she should have been in her bed, Peggy sat alone by the
hearth in Aunt Judy's cabin, baking a cake. It was a peculiar cake, for
she could get no sugar for it, but she had supplied this deficiency with
molasses. It was made of Miss Roberta's finest white flour, and eggs there
were in it and butter, and it contained, besides, three raisins, an olive,
and a prune. When the outside of the cake had been sufficiently baked, and
every portion of it had been scrupulously eaten, the good little Peggy
murmured to herself: "It's pow'ful comfortin' for Miss Rob to have sumfin'
on her min'."




CHAPTER II.