"No," said Elly, shaking her head.

"Don't you feel well?" asked Aunt Hetty, laying one wrinkled, shaky old
hand on her shoulder.

"No, Aunt Hetty," said Elly, her eyes large and sad.

"Maybe she's hungry," suggested Agnes, in a muffled voice from the
depths of a closet.

"Are you?" asked Aunt Hetty.

"Yes," cried Elly.

Aunt Hetty laughed. "Well, I don't know if there are any cookies in the
house or not," she said, "we've been so busy house-cleaning. Agnes, did
you bake any cookies this morning?"

Elly was struck into stupor at this. Think of not _knowing_ if there
were any cookies in the house!

Agnes appeared, tiny and old and stooped and wrinkled, like her
mistress. She had a big, rolled-up woolen-covered comforter in her arms,
over which she nodded. "Yes, I made some. You told me to make some every
Wednesday," she said. She went on, looking anxiously at Aunt Hetty,
"There ain't any moth-holes in this. Was this the comfortable you meant?
I thought this was the one you told me to leave out of the camphor
chest. I thought you told me . . ."

"You know where to find the cookies, don't you, Elly?" asked Aunt Hetty,