“Milly,” said Linda, “the club ought to have a uniform and badges.  I don’t think a club is complete that hasn’t a badge.”

“We all have white aprons,” I said.

“Yes; ordinary aprons, but not great kitchen aprons to cover us up from head to foot.”

“Well, if the club adopts the plan it will not be hard to make such aprons.  We must certainly have caps, and those should be thought of at once.”

Grandmamma was always my resort when I was at my wits’ end, and so I went to her with a question:  “Had she anything which would do for our caps?”

“There must be something in my lower left-hand wardrobe drawer,” said grandmamma, considering.  “Thee may bring me a green bag, which thee will see in the far corner, and then we will talk about those caps in earnest.”

That wonderful green bag proved a sort of fairy find.  There were remnants of mull, Swiss, jaconet and other fabrics—­white, plain and barred.  Grandmamma cut us a pattern.  At four the seven girls were assembled in her room.  Jeanie on a hassock at her feet, the remainder grouped as they chose.

How our fingers flew!  It was just a quarter to six when every cap was finished, and each girl had decided upon her special color.  We hadn’t the ribbon to make our bows, and were obliged to wait till somebody should go to the city to procure it; but each girl knew her favorite color, and that was a comfort.  Linda Curtis chose blue, and I would wear rose-tints (my parents did not insist on my wearing Quaker gray, and I dressed like “the world’s people"), Veva chose old gold, and each of the others had a preference.

“You will look like a field of daisies and clover, dearies,” said grandmamma.

“There!” cried Jeanie.  “Why not have a four-leaved clover as our badge?  There isn’t anything prettier.”

The four-leaved clover carried the day, though one or two did speak for the daisy, the maiden-hair fern and the pussy willow.  All this was before the subject of the national flower had been agitated.

“Where are my pupils?” Miss Muffet appeared promptly at the hour, and wore a most business-like air as she began her instructions.  “Compressed yeast has found its way to Bloomdale, my dears,” she said, “so that I shall not have to begin by telling you how to make yeast.  That useful lesson may wait till another day.  Before we do anything, I will give you some rules for good family bread, and you may write them down, if you please.

“1.  Always sift your flour thoroughly.”

Seven pencils wrote that rule in seven notebooks.

“2.  Mix the dough as soft as it can be handled.  You must never have it too stiff.

“3.  Set it to rise in a moderately warm place.

“4.  You cannot knead bread too much.  The more it is kneaded the firmer, sweeter and lighter it will be.”

When we had written this down Miss Muffet remarked: 

“Mrs. Deacon Ead’s bread always takes the prize at the county fair.  It looks like pound-cake.  I don’t want you girls to make flabby, porous bread, full of air-holes.  I want you to learn how to knead it till it is just like an India-rubber cushion.”