“Why, yes,” said Gladys, bringing out another apron and tying it around her waist, “you heat the fat to fry these in.”  Mrs. Evans and Gladys had never had such a good time together.  Gladys had planned the entire menu and her mother meekly followed her directions as to what to do next.  She and Gladys frolicked around the kitchen with increasing hilarity as the supper progressed.  Never before had there existed such a comradeship between them.

“Do you think this is seasoned right?” asked Mrs. Evans, holding out a spoonful of white sauce for Gladys to taste.

“A little more salt,” said Gladys judicially.  Mrs. Evans had forgotten her irritation of the afternoon.  The conversation which had aroused her ire before now struck her as humorous.

“If Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Jones could only see me now,” she thought with an inward chuckle, “doing my own cooking!” The half-formed plan of sending Gladys back to Miss Russell’s the first of the year faded from her mind.  Send Gladys away?  Why, she was just beginning to enjoy her company!  Another plan presented itself to her mind.  In the Christmas vacation Gladys should give a party which would forever dispel any doubts about the soundness of their financial standing.  Her brain was already at work on the details.  Gladys should have a dress from Madame Charmant’s in New York.  They would have Waldstein, from the Symphony Orchestra, with a half dozen of his best players, furnish the music.  There would be expensive prizes and favors for the games.  Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Jones would have a chance to alter their opinions when their daughters brought home accounts of the affair.  She planned the whole thing while she was eating her supper.

After supper Gladys washed the dishes and her mother wiped them, and they put them away together.  Then Gladys began to get ready to go to Camp Fire meeting and Mrs. Evans reluctantly prepared to go out for the evening.  The nearer ready she was the more disinclined she felt to go.  “Those Jamieson musicales are always such a bore,” she said to herself wearily.  “They never have good singers—­my Gladys could do better than any of them—­and they are interminable.  Father looks tired to death, and I know he would rather stay at home.  Gladys,” she called, looking into her daughter’s room, “where is your Camp Fire meeting to-night?”

“At the Brewsters’,” answered Gladys.

“Do you ever have visitors?” continued her mother.

“Why, yes,” answered Gladys, “we often do.”

“Do you mind if you have one to-night?” asked Mrs. Evans.

“Certainly not,” replied Gladys.

“Well, then, I’m coming along,” said her mother.

“Will you?” cried Gladys.  “Oh goody!” The Winnebagos were surprised and delighted when Mrs. Evans appeared with Gladys.  Since that Saturday’s outing she had held a very warm place in their affections.

“Come in, mother,” called Sahwah; “you might as well join the group too, we have one guest.  This is Mrs. Evans, Gladys’s mother,” she said, when her mother appeared after hastily brushing back her hair and putting on a white apron.  The two women held out their hands in formal greeting, and then changed their minds and fell on each other’s necks.