“Dear me!” said Hildegarde.  “That is as bad as my Southern receipt for wedding cake.  Two hundred and one pounds of flour and fruit, and ten eggs to the pound; and if it isn’t rich enough then, you can add two pounds of currants and one of raisins for each pound of flour.  That would make,—­let me see!  I worked it all out once:  two hundred and seventy pounds of things, and two thousand seven hundred eggs.  What do you suppose they baked it in?”

“In the well!” said Bell.  “That would hold it.  Or else they built a pavilion round it, and had the bride and groom dance a minuet on the top after the ceremony.  What fun cook-books are!  Any more pleasantnesses in your Southern friend?”

“Oh, all kinds of good things!  I remember the receipt for Seminole soup; we ought to try that out here, if we could find the ingredients.  ’Take a squirrel, cut it up and put it on to boil.  When the soup is nearly done add to it one pint of picked hickory-nuts and a spoonful of parched and powdered sassafras leaves, or the tender top of a young pine tree, which gives a very aromatic flavour to the soup.’”

“Oh, do somebody get us a pine tree!” cried Bell.  “That is truly delightful!  We must try it some day.  Now it is my turn.  I quote from Mrs. Rundell the glorious.  This is what she gives to the poor; I don’t want to be poor in Mrs. Rundell’s parish.

“’Cut a very thick upper crust of bread, and put it into the pot where salt beef is boiling and near ready; it will attract some of the fat, and, when swelled out, will be no unpalatable dish to those who rarely taste meat.’  That is called a brewis, my dear; suppose we give it to our pampered family here some day, and see what they say.  How nearly are your biscuits done?  I hear the people growling inside, like hungry bears.  Uncle Pickerel is beginning to smell very good.”

“Another five minutes will give them the requisite ’beautiful light brown’” said Hildegarde, peeping into the oven.  “And the tea is made, and the potatoes are tearing off their jackets in impatience to be eaten.”

“Are we going to have any supper?” asked Phil, looking in from the dining-room.  “Roger has fainted with hunger, and lies a pallid heap on the floor, and Obadiah is gnawing his boots in his agony.”

“As long as he does not swallow the nails,” said Bell, calmly, “it will do him no harm.  Have the babes got the table ready?”

“All ready, sister!” cried Kitty.  “Cups and saucers and plates, and—­oh, Willy, we have forgotten the butter!  Why do we always forget the butter?”

In five minutes the whole family were seated round the table, with the lamp burning brightly above their heads.  Bell came in triumphantly, bearing the mighty pickerel in their glory, on a huge platter decorated with green leaves and golden-rod.  Hildegarde followed, flushed and sparkling, with her biscuits and coffee; and every one fell to with right good will.