“Oh! we got on very well indeed,” replied Pink, laughing, “though there were one or two mishaps.  Fortunately there was plenty of bread in the cupboard, where we could easily reach it; and with that and the molasses jug, we were in no danger of starvation.  But Mother had left a custard-pie on the upper shelf, and poor Bubble wanted a piece of it for dinner.  But neither of us cripples could get at it; and for a long time we could think of no plan which would make it possible.  At last Bubble had a bright idea.  You remember the big fork that Mother uses to take pies out of the oven?  Well, he spliced that on to the broom-handle, and then, standing well back, so that he could see (on one foot, of course, for he couldn’t put the other to the ground), he reached for the pie.  It was a dreadful moment, Hilda!  The pie slid easily on to the fork, and for a moment all seemed to promise well; but the next minute, just as Bubble began to lower it, he wavered on his one foot—­only a little, but enough to send the poor pie tumbling to the ground.”

“Poor pie!” cried Bubble.  “Wal, I like that!  Poor me, I sh’d say.  I’d had bread’n m’lasses three meals runnin’, Miss Hildy.  Now don’t you think that old pie might ha’ come down straight?”

“You should have seen his face, poor dear!” cried Pink.  “He really couldn’t laugh—­for almost two minutes.”

“Wal, I s’pose ‘twas kind o’ funny,” the boy admitted, while Hilda laughed merrily over the catastrophe.  “But thar! when one’s used to standin’ on two legs, it’s dretful onhandy tryin’ to stand on one.  We’ll have bread and jam to-day,” he added, with an affectionate glance at the pot of marmalade, “and that’s a good enough dinner for the Governor o’ the State.”

“Indeed, you shall have more than that!” cried Hildegarde.  “Nurse Lucy does not need me before dinner, so I will get your dinner for you.”

So the active girl made up the fire anew, swept the floor, dusted tables and chairs, and made the little room look tidy and cheerful, as Pink loved to see it.  Then she ran down to the cellar, and reappeared with a basket of potatoes and a pan of rosy apples.

“Now we will perform a trio!” she said.  “Pink, you shall peel and core the apples for apple-sauce, and Bubble shall pare the potatoes, while I make biscuit and gingerbread.”

Accordingly, she rolled up her sleeves and set busily to work; the others followed her example, and fingers and tongues moved ceaselessly, in cheerful emulation of each other.

“I’d like to git hold o’ Simon Hartley!” said Bubble, slicing vengefully at a big potato.  “I wish’t he was this tater, so I do! I’d skin him!  Yah! ornery critter!  An’ him standin’ thar an’ grinnin’ at me over the wall, an’ I couldn’t do nothin’!  Seemed’s though I sh’d fly, Miss Hildy, it did; an’ then not to be able to crawl even!  I sw—­I tell ye, now, I didn’t like that.”

“Poor Bubble!” said Hilda, compassionately, “I’m sure you didn’t.  And did he really start to crawl over to the farm, Pink?”