"Yes, when it isn't burned," agreed Charlotte, with a laugh. Things had
gone fairly well with her that day, and her spirits had risen
accordingly.

"Burning's a thing that will happen to the best cooks once in a while.
'Twas just day before yesterday I blacked a pumpkin pie so the doctor
poked his fun at me all the time he was eating it," said the
housekeeper, with a tactful disregard for the full truth, which was that
a refractory small patient in the office had driven the doctor to
require her assistance for a longer period than was consistent with
attention to her oven.

"Oh, did you?" asked Charlotte, eagerly. "That encourages me. Doctor
Churchill told me he had the finest cook in the state, and I've been
envying you ever since."

"Doctor Churchill had better be careful how he brags," Mrs. Fields
declared, much gratified. "Well, now, I'll tell you what you do. It
ain't but a step across the two back yards. When you get in a quandary
how to cook anything--how long to give it or whether to bake or
boil--you just run across and ask me. I ain't one o' the prying
kind--the doctor'll tell you that--and you needn't be afraid it'll go
any further. I know how hard it must be for a young girl like you to
take the care of a house on yourself, and I'll be pleased to show you
anything I can."

"That's very good of you," said Charlotte, gratefully, as Mrs. Fields
went briskly down the steps; and she really felt that it was. She would
have resented the appearance of almost any of her neighbours at her back
door with an offer of help, suspecting that they had come to use their
eyes, and afterward their tongues, in criticism. But something about
Mrs. Hepsibah Fields disarmed her at once. She could not tell why.

"This gingerbread is perfect," said Celia, an hour later, when Charlotte
had brought up her supper. "You are improving every day. But it frets me
not to have you come to me for help. I could plan things for you, and
teach you all the little I know. I'm doing so well now, the doctor says
I may get down-stairs on the couch by next week. Then you certainly must
let me do my part."

But Charlotte shook her head obstinately. "I'm going to fight it through
myself. I'd rather. You've enough to do--writing letters."

When Lanse came into Celia's room that evening, his first words were
merry.

"What I'm anxious to know," he said, "is what you did with your rice
pudding. Charlotte says you ate it--and the inference was th