an immense time to arrange; having to be carefully smoothed down beneath—Oh, heaven, what a wicked little stomacher!—and to be gathered up into little plaits by the strings before it could be tied, and to be tapped, rebuked, and wheedled, at the pockets, before it would set right, which at last it did, and when it did—but never mind; this is a sober chronicle; Oh, never mind! And then there were her cuffs to be tucked up, for fear of flour; and she had a little ring to pull off her finger, which wouldn't come off (foolish little ring!); and during the whole of these preparations she looked demurely every now and then at Tom, from under her dark eye-lashes, as if they were all a part of the pudding, and indispensable to its composition.
For the life and soul of him, Tom could get no further in his writing than, "A respectable young man aged thirty-five," and this, notwithstanding the show she made of being supernaturally quiet, and going about on tiptoe, lest she should disturb him: which only served as an additional means of distracting his attention, and keeping it upon her.
"Tom," she said at last, in high glee. "Tom!"
"What now?" said Tom, repeating to himself, "aged thirty-five!
"Will you look here a moment, please."
As if he hadn't been looking all the time!
"I am going to begin, Tom. Don't you wonder why I butter the inside of the basin?" said his busy little sister. "Eh, Tom?"
"Not more than you do, I dare say," replied Tom, laughing. "For I believe you don't know anything about it."
"What an infidel you are, Tom! How else do you think it would turn out easily when it was done? For a civil-engineer and land-surveyor not to know that. My goodness, Tom!"
It was wholly out of the question to try to write. Tom lined out "A respectable young man, aged thirty-five;" and sat looking on, pen in hand, with one of the most loving smiles imaginable.
Such a busy little woman as she was! So full of self-importance, and trying so hard not to smile, or seem uncertain about anything! It was a perfect treat to Tom to see her with her brows knit, and her rosy lips pursed up, kneading away at the crust, rolling it out, cutting it up into strips, lining the basin with it, shaving it off fine round the rim; chopping up the steak into small pieces, raining down pepper and salt upon them, packing them into the basin, pouring in cold water for gravy; and never venturing to steal a look in his direction, lest her gravity should be disturbed; until at last, the basin being quite full and only wanting the top crust, she clapped her hands, all covered with paste and flour, at Tom, and burst out heartily into such a charming little laugh of triumph, that the pudding need have had no other seasoning to commend it to the taste of any reasonable man on earth.
"Where's the pudding?" said Tom. For he was cutting his jokes, Tom was.
"Where!" she answered, holding it up with both hands. "Look at it!"
"That a pudding!" said Tom.
"It will be, you stupid fellow, when it's covered in," returned his sister. Tom still pretending to look incredulous, she gave him a tap on
