“Fer goodness’ sake!”

“Did you ev—­er!”

“Why, Mis’ Black!”

“Ain’t that just—­”

“You never done that all yourself?”

Mrs. Black nodded slowly, almost solemnly.  The huge cake which was built up in successive steps, like a pyramid, was crowned on its topmost disk by a bridal scene, a tiny man holding his tiny veiled bride by the hand in the midst of an expanse of pink frosting.  About the side of the great cake, in brightly colored “mites,” was inscribed “Greetings to our Pastor and his Bride.”

“I thought ’twould be kind of nice, seeing our minister was just married, and so, in a way, this is a wedding reception.  I don’t know what the rest of you ladies’ll think.”

Abby Daggett stood with clasped hands, her big soft bosom rising and falling in a sort of ecstasy.

“Why, Phoebe,” she said, “it’s a real poem!  It couldn’t be no han’somer if it had been done right up in heaven!”

She put her arms about Mrs. Solomon Black and kissed her.

“And this ain’t all,” said Mrs. Black.  “Lois Daggett is going to fetch over a chocolate cake and a batch of crullers for me when she comes.”

Applause greeted this statement.

“Time was,” went on Mrs. Black, “and not so long ago, neither, when I was afraid to spend a cent, for fear of a rainy day that’s been long coming.  ’Tain’t got here yet; but I can tell you ladies, I got a lesson from her in generosity I don’t mean to forget.  ’Spend and be spent’ is my motto from now on; so I didn’t grudge the new-laid eggs I put in that cake, nor yet the sugar, spice nor raisins.  There’s three cakes in one—­in token of the trinity (I do hope th’ won’t nobody think it’s wicked t’ mention r’ligion in connection with a cake); the bottom cake was baked in a milk-pan, an’ it’s a bride’s cake, being made with the whites of fourteen perfec’ly fresh eggs; the next layer is fruit and spice, as rich as wedding cake ought to be; the top cake is best of all; and can be lifted right off and given to Rever’nd an’ Mrs. Wesley Elliot....  I guess they’ll like to keep the wedding couple for a souvenir.”

A vigorous clapping of hands burst forth.  Mrs. Solomon Black waited modestly till this gratifying demonstration had subsided, then she went on: 

“I guess most of you ladies’ll r’member how one short year ago Miss Lyddy Orr Bolton came a’walkin’ int’ our midst, lookin’ sweet an’ modest, like she was; and how down-in-th’-mouth we was all a-feelin’, ‘count o’ havin’ no money t’ buy th’ things we’d worked s’ hard t’ make.  Some of us hadn’t no more grit an’ gumption ‘n Ananias an’ S’phira, t’ say nothin’ o’ Jonah an’ others I c’d name.  In she came, an’ ev’rythin’ was changed from that minute! ...Now, I want we sh’d cut up that cake—­after everybody’s had a chance t’ see it good—­all but th’ top layer, same’s I said—­an’ all of us have a piece, out o’ compl’ment t’ our paster an’ his wife, an’ in memory o’ her, who’s gone from us.”