letter out of her mind and think only of how to do a
dozen things at once one quarter as quickly and skilfully as Laura and
Aunt Jessica did them, which is what the apparently simple process of
dishing up a dinner means, the fine thrill of the enterprise was gone.
Laura came in to help her and Elliott's tongue tripped briskly through
a deal of chatter, but all the while underneath there was a little
undercurrent of uneasiness and anxiety. Wouldn't you have thought it
would delight her to have the opportunity of doing what she had so
much wished to do?

"What's this?" Laura asked, spying the white envelop on the floor; "a
letter?"

"Oh, yes," said Elliott, "one I dropped," and she tucked it into the
pocket of the white skirt that had been all the time under the blue
apron, giving it a vindictive little slap as she did so. Which, of
course, was quite uncalled for, as if any one was responsible for what
was in the letter, that person was Elliott Cameron. The fact that she
knew this very well only added a little extra vigor to the slap.

And all through dinner she sat and laughed and chattered away, exactly
as though she weren't conscious in every nerve of the letter in her
pocket, despite the fact that she didn't know a word it said. But she
didn't eat much: the taste of food seemed to choke her. Her gaze
wandered from Mother Jess to Father Bob and back, around the circle of
eager, happy, alert faces. And she felt--poor Elliott!--as though her
first discontent were a boomerang now returned to stab her.

"This is Elliott's dinner, I would have you all know," announced Laura
when the pie was served. "She did it all herself."

"Not every bit," said Elliott, honestly; but her disclaimer was lost
in the chorus of praise.

Father Bob laid down his fork, looking pleased. "Did you, indeed? Now,
this is what I call a well-cooked dinner."

"I'll give you a recommend for a cook," drawled Stannard, "and eat my
words about tightening my belt, too."

"Some dinner!" Bruce commented.

"Please, I'd like another piece," said Priscilla.

"Me, too," chimed in Tom. "It's corking."

Laura clapped her hands. "Listen, Elliott, listen! Could praise go
further?"

But Mother Jess, when they rose from the table, slipped an arm through
Elliott's and drew her toward the veranda. "Did the cook lose her
appetite getting dinner, little girl?"

"Oh, no, indeed, Aunt Jessica! Getting dinner didn't tire me a bit. I
just loved it. I--I didn't