Ethelwyn had intended to have a most unhappy day, so after her mother
and Beth went, she lay face down in the hammock with a very damp ball of
a handkerchief squeezed up tightly against her eyes. But by and by she
heard Aunty Stevens calling her. "Here I am," she answered, at once
sitting up.
"Do you feel well enough to help me make some apple pies?" Ethelwyn
rolled out of the hammock, and ran into the kitchen in a trice.
"O if you only knew how I love to cook, Aunty Stevens," she cried. "And
nobody will hardly ever let me. I can make the bestest cookies if any
one else just makes the dough. So if you don't feel just prezactly well,
you can sit in the rocking-chair, and I will do it all."
"Thank you, deary, but I'm feeling pretty well to-day, so we will work
together. Let me tie this apron around you."
Then Aunty Stevens brought out the dearest little moulding-board and
rolling-pin, and drew out of a corner a small table.
"O isn't everything about this just too cunning? Did these used to be
Miss Dorothy's?" said Ethelwyn in a rapture, Mrs. Stevens nodded.
"Here's your dough, dear. Now roll it out to fit this little plate."
This took time, for it persisted in rolling out long and slim, and not
at all the shape of the plate, but at last it was fitted in.
"Now what comes?" said the little cook, lifting a red and floury face.
"A thick layer of these apples--no, just a layer of sugar and
flour--then the crust won't soak.
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