I rushed back to the den of Aunt Hetty, as I now styled the kitchen.  She was pacing back and forth like a lioness in a cage at a show, singing an old plantation melody.  That was a sign that her fit of temper was worse than ever.  Little I cared.

“Hetty Van Doren,” I said, “stop sulking and singing!  There isn’t time for either.  Poor grandmamma has a fearful headache, and you and I will have to take care of her.  Put some water on to boil, and then come up to her room and help me.  And don’t sing ‘Go down, Moses,’ another minute.”

I had used two arguments which were powerful with Aunt Hetty.  One was calling her Hetty Van Doren.  She liked to be considered as belonging to the family, and no compliment could have pleased her more.  She often said she belonged to the Kentucky noblesse, and held herself far above common trash.

The other was my saying you and I. She was vexed that mother had left me—­a baby, in her opinion—­to look after the house, and rather resented my assuming to be the mistress.  By my happy form of speech I pleased the droll old woman, who was much like a child herself.  Then, too, she was as well aware as I was that grandmamma’s pain would grow worse and worse every hour until it was relieved.

It was surprising how quickly aunty moved when she chose.  She had a fire made and the kettle on to boil in five minutes; and, almost before I knew it, she had set cold chicken, and nice bread and butter and a great goblet of creamy milk on the table for me.

“There, honey,” she said, “don’t mind dis hateful ole woman.  Eat your luncheon, while I go up and help ole miss to bed.”

A hot-water bag for her feet, warm bandages laid on her head, some soothing medicine which she always took, and Hetty and I at last left grandmamma more comfortable than we found her.  It was funny, as I thought of it afterward.  In one of her worst paroxysms the dear lady gasped, a word at a time: 

“Aunt—­Hetty,—­Miss—­
Milly—­has—­asked—­friends—­to—­tea—­to-morrow.  Put—­some—­ham—­and—­
;tongue—­on—­to—­boil—­directly!”

Aunt Hetty looked as if she thought grandmamma must be raving.  I nodded that it was all right, and up went the two black hands in expostulation and amazement.

But a while later a savory smell of boiling ham came appetizingly wafted up the stairs.  I drew a free breath.  I knew the girls would at least have something to eat, and my hospitality would not be shamed.

So toward evening I made grandmamma a cup of tea.  It is not every one who knows how to make tea.  The water must boil and bubble up.  It isn’t fully boiling when the steam begins to rise from the spout, but if you will wait five minutes after that it will be just right for use.  Pour a very little into the teapot, rinse it, and pour the water out, and then put in your tea.  No rule is better than the old one of a teaspoonful for every cup, and an extra one for the pot.  Let this stand five minutes where it will not boil, and it will be done.  Good tea must be steeped not boiled.  Mother’s way is to make hers on the table.  I have been drilled over and over in tea making, and am skillful.