She girded herself with a white apron, and busily with knots and pins contrived a bib to it, coming close and tight under her chin, as if it had caught her round the neck to kiss her. Over this bib her dimples looked delightful, and under it her pretty figure not less so. “Now, Ma,” said Bella, pushing back her hair from her temples with both hands, “what’s first?”

“First,” returned Mrs. Wilfer solemnly, “if you persist in what I cannot but regard as conduct utterly incompatible with the equipage in which you arrived⁠—”

(“Which I do, Ma.”)

“First, then, you put the fowls down to the fire.”

“To⁠—be⁠—sure!” cried Bella; “and flour them, and twirl them round, and there they go!” sending them spinning at a great rate. “What’s next, Ma?”