lookin' in de grandmother books. But you can
see,--mebbe you find somethin' different."

Hildegarde was already deep in the old manuscript book. Its leaves were
yellow with age, the ink faded, but the receipts were perfectly
legible, many of the later ones being in Miss Barbara Aytoun's fine,
crabbed, yet plain hand.

"'Bubble and Squeak!' Auntie, I wish you would give us Bubble and Squeak
for dinner some day. You are to make it of cold beef, and then at the
end of the receipt she tells you that pork is much better.--'China
Chilo! Mince a pint basin of undressed neck of mutton'--How _is_ one to
mince a basin, do you suppose? I should have to drop it from the roof of
the house, and then it would not be fine enough.--'Serve it fried of a
beautiful colour'--no! that's not it!--'Pigs' feet. Wash your feet
thoroughly, and boil, or rather stew them gently'--Miss Barbara, I am
surprised at you!--'Ramakins'--those might be good. 'Excellent
Negus'--ah! here we are! 'Almond cakes!' H'm! 'Beat a pound of almonds
fine'--and a pleasant thing it is to do--'with rose water--half a pound
of sifted sugar--beat with a spoon'--ah, this is the part I was looking
for, Auntie! 'Bake them in the flower-moulds, watching carefully; when a
beautiful light gold colour, take them out, and fill when cold with
cream into which is beat shredded peaches or apricots.' O--oh! doesn't
that sound good, Auntie?"

"Good 'nuff," Auntie assented, nodding her turbaned head. "Good deal of
bodder to make, 'pears to me, Miss Hildy. I'm gittin' old for de fancy
cakes, 'pears like."

"Oh, you dear soul! I don't want you to make them," cried Hildegarde. "I
want to make them myself. Now, Auntie, I am going to be very
confidential."

Auntie's dark face glowed with pleasure. She loved a little confidence.

"You see," Hildegarde went on, "I want some money. Not that I don't have
enough for everything; but I want to earn a little myself, so that I can
make all the Christmas presents I want, without feeling that I am taking
it out of the family purse. You understand, I am sure, Auntie!" and
Auntie, who had held Hildegarde in her arms when she was a baby, nodded
her head, and understood very well.

"So I thought that possibly I might make something to send to the
Woman's Exchange in New York. I saw in a magazine the other day that the
ladies who give a great many lunches are always wishing to find new
little prettinesses for their tables. I saw something of that my