“Burns her cheeks and her fingers over the stove,” continued Aunt Helen in a disgusted tone, “in order that her father may have burnt toast prepared by her hands.”

“You’ve blundered in one item, mother,” was Abbie’s good-humored reply.  “My toast is never burnt, and only this morning father pronounced it perfect.”

“Oh, she is developing!” answered Mrs. Ried, with a curious mixture of annoyance and amusement in look and tone.  “If Mr. Foster fails in business soon, as I presume he will, judging from his present rate of proceeding, we shall find her advertising for the position of first-class cook in a small family.”

If Abbie felt wounded or vexed over this thrust at Mr. Foster, it showed itself only by a slight deepening of the pink on her cheek, as she answered in the brightest of tones:  “If I do, mother, and you engage me, I’ll promise you that the eggs shall not be boiled as hard as these are.”

All this impressed two thoughts on Ester’s mind—­one, that Abbie, for some great reason unknown to, and unimagined by herself, actually of her own free will, arose early every morning, and busied herself over preparations for her father’s breakfast; the other, that Abbie’s mother said some disagreeable things to her, in a disagreeable way—­a way that would exceedingly provoke her, and that she wouldn’t endure, she said to herself, with energy.

These two thoughts so impressed themselves, that when she and Abbie were alone again, they led her to ask two questions: 

“Why do you get breakfast at home for your father, Abbie?  Is it necessary?”

“No; only I like it, and he likes it.  You see, he has very little time to spend at home, and I like that little to be homelike; besides, Ester, it is my one hour of opportunity with my father.  I almost never see him alone at any other time, and I am constantly praying that the Spirit will make use of some little word or act of mine to lead him to the cross.”

There was no reply to be made to this, so Ester turned to the other question: 

“What does your mother mean by her reference to Mr. Foster?”

“She thinks some of his schemes of benevolence are on too large a scale to be prudent.  But he is a very prudent man, and doesn’t seem to think so at all.”

“Doesn’t it annoy you to have her speak in that manner about him?”

The ever-ready color flushed into Abbie’s cheeks again, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she answered gently:  “I think it would, Ester, if she were not my own mother, you know.”

Another rebuke.  Ester felt vexed anyway.  This new strange cousin of hers was going to prove painfully good.