"Well," began Jane, "she played her usual trick of startin' off without
so much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashin'."

Gwendolyn's spoon paused half way to her expectant pink mouth. She
stared at Jane. "Oh, I didn't see that," she exclaimed regretfully.
"Jane, what is a tongue-lashing?"

Jane sat up. "A tongue-lashin'," said she, "is what _you_ need, young
lady. Look at the way you've spilled your soup! Take it, Thomas, and
serve the rest of the dinner, I ain't goin' to allow you to be at the
table _all_ day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced
chicken she can have."

"But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly.
"I wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and--"

"Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?"

Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the
dim past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She
did not remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been
mercifully spared his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered.

"Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry
_the rest of your life_.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight
is'--you know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it
hot.)"

"A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to