Polly put her
head out from the pantry. Her face was decorated with coal-dust
from the stove and flour from the barrel, but she was too intent
upon her work to care for that.
"Well," she asked, "what's the matter?"
"There isn't enough cornstarch," said Molly, showing the empty
paper.
"How much more do you need?" asked Polly, looking rather blank.
"Another spoonful," replied Molly; "and the milk is all boiling
now, ready for it."
"I wish we had Alan here, to send for some," sighed Polly.
"There isn't time. Don't you suppose your mother has another
package?" asked Molly, stirring the boiling milk in an excited
fashion that sent occasional drops spattering and hissing over the
stove.
"Perhaps she has." And Polly hurried away to the store-room,
jingling her keys with a comical air of consequence.
She came flying back, in a moment, with a small package in her
hand.
"I wonder if this won't do just as well," she said. "It's marked
elastic starch, instead of cornstarch, but it looks ever so much
like the other, and it's all there is, anyway."
Molly eyed it with little favor.
"It isn't just the same," she said thoughtfully; "but if we can't
get anything else, we may as well use it.
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