“But in the meantime what do you suppose that bread was doing?  Just spreading itself in the most remarkable manner over the nice blanket under which I had cuddled it!  Then I had an amazing time.  Mother said the patting process must all be done over again; and there was abundant opportunity for more moralizing.  That bread developed the most remarkable stick-to-a-tive-ness that I ever beheld.  I assure you, if total depravity is a mark of humanity, then I believe my dough is human.

“Well, we are all still alive, though poor Mr. Holland is, I fear, very little more than that.  He was thrown from his carriage one evening last week, and brought home insensible.  He is now in a raging fever, and very ill indeed.  For once in their lives both doctors agree.  He is delirious most of the time; and his delirium takes the very trying form which leads him to imagine that only mother can do any thing for him.  The doctors think he fancies she is his own mother, and that he is a boy again.  All this makes matters rather hard on mother.  She is frequently with him half the night; and often Maggie and I are left to reign supreme in the kitchen for the entire day.  Those are the days that ‘try men’s souls,’ especially women’s.

“I am sometimes tempted to think that all the book knowledge the world contains is not to be compared to knowing just what, and how, and when, to do in the kitchen.  I quite think so for a few hours when mother, after a night of watching in a sick room, comes down to undo some of my blundering.  She is the patientest, dearest, lovingest, kindest mother that ever a mortal had, and just because she is so patient shall I rejoice over the day when she can give a little sigh of relief and leave the kitchen, calm in the assurance that it will be right-side up when she returns.  Ester, how did you make things go right?  I’m sure I try harder than I ever knew you to, and yet salt will get into cakes and puddings, and sugar into potatoes.  Just here I’m conscience smitten.  I beg you will not construe one of the above sentences as having the remotest allusion to your being sadly missed at home.  Mother said I was not even to hint such a thing, and I’m sure I haven’t.  I’m a remarkable housekeeper.  The fall term at the academy opened week before last.  I have hidden my school-books behind that old barrel in the north-east corner of the attic.  I thought they would be safer there than below stairs.  At least I was sure the bread would do better in the oven because of their ascent.

“To return to the scene of our present trials:  Mr. Holland is, I suppose, very dangerously sick; and poor Mrs. Holland is the very embodiment of despair.  When I look at her in prospective misery, I am reminded of poor, dear cousin Abbie (to whom I would write if it didn’t seem a sacrilege), and I conclude there is really more misery in this world of ours than I had any idea of.  I’ve discovered why the world was made round.  It must be to typify our lives—­sort of a tread-mill existence, you know; coming constantly around to the things which you thought you had done yesterday and put away; living over again to-day the sorrows which you thought were vanquished last week.  I’m sleepy, and it is nearly time to bake cakes for breakfast.  ’The tip of the morning to you,’ as Patrick O’Brien greets Maggie.