"I don't mean fancy
cooking, but good, plain things that one could live on."
"Why not go to cooking school?" asked Polly.
"Yes," rejoined Molly scornfully; "and learn to make chicken salad
and angel cake and chocolate creams. That's all very well, but I
want to know how to do something that will help along, when we get
in a tight place. Hark! what's that?" she added, as a sudden
flurry of rain swept against the windows.
"That's cheerful!" said Alan, starting up. "I don't care about
getting a ducking. I wish I'd gone home before this."
"No matter," urged Polly. "Stay till papa comes; he'll be in at
nine, and then we'll give you an umbrella and things."
"Well." And Alan threw more wood on the fire and then settled back
into his former position; "I may as well, for I don't believe it
will rain any harder than it does now, and maybe it will stop. I
say, Polly," he went on; "tell us a story, there's a good fellow."
"I'm too tired to-night, Alan," Polly began; "I haven't an idea in
my head and--Is that you, papa?" she called, as the front door
opened and shut.
"No, it's mamma," and Mrs. Adams walked into the parlor.
"Jerusalem!" and Polly sprang up with a glad cry.
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