shed paring the apples,
was watching her cousin.

"It is not easy," she said, after banging away with the rolling-pin.
"Maybe Bubbles can do it; her arms are stronger;" and, after this third
effort, some sort of crust was ready, with which to line the pan.

"It seems pretty thick," Dimple declared, looking at it with a
dissatisfied eye; "but it is the best we can do."

"Oh, it will taste all right," encouraged Florence. "Now for the apples;
what else, Dimple?"

"Sugar, and little bits of butter and--what else? Oh, yes, a little
sprinkling of flour. Now the top goes on, and it can go into the oven. I
wonder how long it will take to bake. It is one o'clock, and I am
beginning to get hungry.

"The oven isn't very hot," she presently pronounced. "Put some more wood
in, Bubbles. Oh, what is the matter, Florence?" as an exclamation made
her turn in her cousin's direction.

"I have burned my hand," said Florence, trying hard not to cry. "I
wanted to look at the fire, and when I lifted the lid, the steam from
the kettle came just where I put my hand. I didn't know steam could
burn so."

"It is worse than anything else," informed Dimple. "It is too bad. I'll
get something to put on it, to take the burn out."

"Kar'sene's mighty good," suggested Bubbles.

"Yes, and so is flour; and linseed oil is good; that will be the best,"
and the bottle being brought, the wounded hand was bound up and
Florence retired from action and sat on the step watching the others,
while she nursed her hurt.

"Let me see," went on Dimple, bustling about. "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 j