showed her a fire snapping briskly in the store and the teakettle sending out clouds of steam. Bob was nowhere in sight.
"He's out at the barn," thought Betty. "I must hurry and get breakfast."
She dressed quickly but trimly, as usual, and raised the windows of the parlor. Screens or not, she felt the house would be the better for quantities of fresh air. She closed the door softly and went down the narrow little passage into the kitchen.
She found a bowl of nice-looking eggs in the pantry and a piece of home-cured bacon neatly sewed into a white muslin bag and partly sliced. This, with slices of golden brown toast—the bread box held only half a loaf of decidedly stale bread—solved her breakfast menu. There were two pans of milk standing on the table, thick with yellow cream, and Betty was just wondering if Bob had milked and when, for the cream could not have risen under two or three hours' time, when the boy came whistling cheerfully in, carrying a pail of foaming milk.
"Sh!" warned Betty. "Don't wake your aunts up. When did you milk. Bob? You can't have done it twice in one morning."
"Well hardly," admitted Bob, lowering his voice discreetly. "I went out last night after I was sure you were asleep. I knew the cows had to be
