Barbara rose from her chair with a red ringlet of apple-paring hanging down against her white apron, and seated herself again at her work when the visitors had taken the two opposite corners of the deep, cushioned sofa.

The red cloth was folded back across the end of the dining-table, and at the other end were mother’s white board and rolling-pin, the pudding-cloth wrung into a twist out of the scald, and waiting upon a plate, and a pitcher of cold water with ice tinkling against its sides.  Mother sat with the deal bowl in her lap, turning and mincing with the few last strokes the light, delicate dust of the pastry.  The sunshine—­work and sunshine always go so blessedly together—­poured in, and filled the room up with life and glory.

“Why, this is the pleasantest room in all your house!” said Miss Elizabeth.

“That is just what Ruth said it would be when we turned it into a kitchen,” said Barbara.

“You don’t mean that this is really your kitchen!”

“I don’t think we are quite sure what it is,” replied Barbara, laughing.  “We either dine in our kitchen or kitch in our dining-room; and I don’t believe we have found out yet which it is!”

“You are wonderful people!”

“You ought to have belonged to the army, and lived in quarters,” said Mrs. Pennington.  “Only you would have made your rooms so bewitching you would have been always getting turned out.”

“Turned out?”

“Yes; by the ranking family.  That is the way they do.  The major turns out the captain, and the colonel the major.  There’s no rest for the sole of your foot till you’re a general.”

Mrs. Holabird set her bowl on the table, and poured in the ice-water.  Then the golden dust, turned and cut lightly by the chopper, gathered into a tender, mellow mass, and she lifted it out upon the board.  She shook out the scalded cloth, spread it upon the emptied bowl, sprinkled it snowy-thick with flour, rolled out the crust with a free quick movement, and laid it on, into the curve of the basin.  Barbara brought the apples, cut up in white fresh slices, and slid them into the round.  Mrs. Holabird folded over the edges, gathered up the linen cloth in her hands, tied it tightly with a string, and Barbara disappeared with it behind the damask screen, where a puff of steam went up in a minute that told the pudding was in.  Then Mrs. Holabird went into the pantry-closet and washed her hands, that never really came to need more than a finger-bowl could do for them, and Barbara carried after her the board and its etceteras, and the red cloth was drawn on again, and there was nothing, but a low, comfortable bubble in the chimney-corner to tell of house-wifery or dinner.

“I wish it had lasted longer,” said Miss Elizabeth.  “I am afraid I shall feel like company again now.”

“I am ashamed to tell you what I came for,” said Madam Pennington.  “It was to ask about a girl.  Can I do anything with Winny Lafferty?”