"Now, Flidda," said Cynthy, "just you be quiet. There ain't no
place where you call bake 'em. I'm just going to clap 'em in
the reflector — that's the shortest way I can take to do 'em.
You keep yourself out o' muss."

"They wont be muffins if you bake 'em in the reflector,
Cynthy; they aren't half so good. Ah, do let me! I wont make a
bit of muss."

"Where'll you do 'em? "

"In grandpa's room — if you'll just clean off the top of the
stove for me; now do, Cynthy! I'll do 'em beautifully, and you
wont have a bit of trouble. — Come!"

"It'll make an awful smoke, Flidda; you'll fill your grandpa's
room with the smoke, and he wont like that, I guess. "

"O, he wont mind it," said Fleda. "Will you, grandpa?"

"What, dear?" said Mr. Ringgan, looking up at her from his
paper, with a relaxing face which indeed promised to take
nothing amiss that she might do.

"Will you mind if I fill your room with smoke?"

"No, dear!" said he, the strong heartiness of his acquiescence
almost reaching a laugh; "no, dear! — fill it with anything
you like!"