“It’s all Peter’s fault,” said Felicity.  “I do think he might have had more sense than to take a clock striking for a bell ringing.”

“I never heard that kind of a strike before,” protested Peter.  “It don’t sound a bit like other clocks.  And the door was shut and the sound kind o’ muffled.  It’s all very fine to say you would have known what it was, but I don’t believe you would.”

“I wouldn’t have,” said the Story Girl honestly.  “I thought it was a bell when I heard it, and the door open, too.  Let us be fair, Felicity.”

“I’m dreadful tired,” sighed Cecily.

We were all “dreadful tired,” for this was the third night of late hours and nerve racking strain.  But it was over two hours since we had eaten the cookies, and Felicity suggested that a saucerful apiece of raspberries and cream would not be hard to take.  It was not, for any one but Cecily, who couldn’t swallow a mouthful.

“I’m glad father and mother will be back to-morrow night,” she said.  “It’s too exciting when they’re away.  That’s my opinion.”

CHAPTER XVII.  THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING

Felicity was cumbered with many cares the next morning.  For one thing, the whole house must be put in apple pie order; and for another, an elaborate supper must be prepared for the expected return of the travellers that night.  Felicity devoted her whole attention to this, and left the secondary preparation of the regular meals to Cecily and the Story Girl.  It was agreed that the latter was to make a cornmeal pudding for dinner.

In spite of her disaster with the bread, the Story Girl had been taking cooking lessons from Felicity all the week, and getting on tolerably well, although, mindful of her former mistake, she never ventured on anything without Felicity’s approval.  But Felicity had no time to oversee her this morning.

“You must attend to the pudding yourself,” she said.  “The recipe’s so plain and simple even you can’t go astray, and if there’s anything you don’t understand you can ask me.  But don’t bother me if you can help it.”

The Story Girl did not bother her once.  The pudding was concocted and baked, as the Story Girl proudly informed us when we came to the dinner-table, all on her own hook.  She was very proud of it; and certainly as far as appearance went it justified her triumph.  The slices were smooth and golden; and, smothered in the luscious maple sugar sauce which Cecily had compounded, were very fair to view.  Nevertheless, although none of us, not even Uncle Roger or Felicity, said a word at the time, for fear of hurting the Story Girl’s feelings, the pudding did not taste exactly as it should.  It was tough—­decidedly tough—­and lacked the richness of flavour which was customary in Aunt Janet’s cornmeal puddings.  If it had not been for the abundant supply of sauce it would have been very dry eating indeed.  Eaten it was, however, to the last crumb.  If it were not just what a cornmeal pudding might be, the rest of the bill of fare had been extra good and our appetites matched it.