COOK. And never a day out? What did you do all the time? Did they
learn you anything?

FAITH. Weaving. That's why I hate it.

COOK. Tell me about your poor little baby. I'm sure you meant it for
the best.

FAITH. [Sardonically] Yes; I was afraid they'd make it a ward in
Chancery.

COOK. Oh! dear--what things do come into your head! Why! No one can
take a baby from its mother.

FAITH. Except the Law.

COOK. Tt! Tt! Well! Here's the pickled onions. Miss Mary loves 'em!
Now then, let me see you lay the cloth.

She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to FAITH, and while the girl
begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter.

And here's where we pass the dishes through into the pantry.

The door is opened, and MRS MARCH'S voice says: "Cook--a minute!"

[Preparing to go] Salt cellars one at each corner--four, and the peppers.
[From the door] Now the decanters. Oh! you'll soon get on. [MRS MARCH
"Cook!"] Yes, ma'am.