"Pheough!" said Judy. "Is THAT how you make it? You need not give
ME any."
It certainly was manufactured with surprising celerity.
Mr. Gillet merely tossed some flour from a bag out upon a plate,
added a pinch of salt and some water; then he shaped it into a cake
of dough, and laid it on the ashes of the fire, covering it all over
with the hot, silver ash.
"HOW dirty!" said Nell, elevating her pretty little nose.
But when it was cooked, and Mr. Gillet lifted it up and dusted the
ash away--lo! it was high and light and beautifully white.
So they ate it, and took mental marginal notes to make it in the
paddocks at Misrule for each and every picnic to come.
They piled up two plates of good things and put in the brown man's
cupboard, and Mr. Gillet laid is unread English papers on the chair
near the cat.
"That 'Telegraph' is a month old," he said deprecatingly seeing Meg
smile upon him her first smile that day.
Chapter XIX A Pale-Blue Hair Ribbon
She in her virginal beauty
As pure as a pictured saint,
How should this sinning and sorrow
Have for her danger or taint?
The reason our sweet pale Margaret had been reluctant of her smiles
was on account of the very man who alone missed them.
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