"We have chicken, and
bread and butter, and sliced tomatoes, and milk, and the 'cobbler.' It
is doing, Florence; it is beginning to brown."
"I wish it would hurry up," Florence said. "I'm hungry, and, oh! how my
hand hurts."
"Isn't it any better?"
"A little; but it doesn't feel a bit good."
"It is too bad," said Dimple, sympathetically, coming over and putting a
floury hand on her cousin's.
"I smell the pie," she exclaimed, jumping up. "It must be burning," and
she ran to the oven.
"Is it burned?" asked Florence, anxiously.
"No, only just a weeny bit caught. I'll take it out. Doesn't it look
good?"
Florence gave an admiring assent, and they proceeded to take their meal;
but alas!--when the pie was cut a mass of sticky dough and raw apple was
disclosed to the disappointment of them all.
"We'll have to put it back and eat it after awhile," said Florence. "It
will taste just as good then."
"Yes, and we can eat cake for dessert," and the pie was again placed in
the oven.
Not long after, a rapping was heard at the side porch. "Who in the world
can that be around there!" exclaimed Dimple. "Go and see, Bubbles."
Bubbles looked out, cautiously, for it was not the usual place for any
one to make an appearance. Presently she came back with big eyes and a
somewhat scared expression.
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