table mats into tight balls before thrusting them into the table drawer. Dimity averted her gaze. Dear Ella, so goodhearted, but so clumsy! Depend upon it there would be as much work to do clearing up after Ella's ministrations as if she had done the job herself, thought Dimity. But she mustn't be disloyal, she told herself, and really it was uncommonly thoughtful of Ella to offer to do these chores she so hated.
"Very well, dear," she said gratefully. "I'll go up, if you insist! But do put on your rubber gloves!"
She mounted the creaking stairs to the little bedroom above and turned a stoical ear to a dreadful crash, followed by a muttered imprecation, which shook the cottage.
"As long as it isn't mother's fruit bowl," thought Dimity anxiously, and climbed resignedly under the eider-down.
Having washed up the glass, silver and china, and carefully stacked the sticky casserole, caked with parsley sauce, a saucepan equally encrusted with mashed potato, a parsley cutter, a stained board on which the herb had been cut, and various other utensils used in the preparation of the meal, all upon the draining board to await Dimity's ministrations later, Ella felt aglow with righteousness.
It was really rather pleasant to have the kitchen to herself, she decided. She filled an enormous two-handled saucepan with water and set it on the gas stove ready for the dyeing. The rubber gloves annoyed her. They were slippery, and her hands felt clumsy in them, but she realized that she had better obey Dr. Lovell's injunctions if she were going to handle her painting materials.
She set about mixing the dye in an old enamel bowl. It was a beautiful deep red, and by the time it had been added to the hot water, it looked as luscious as wine.
Ella tested a scrap of the natural-colored linen she proposed to steep in it. It came out a satisfying rich shade and Ella sighed with pleasure. Little by little she let the length of stuff slide into the bubbling brew until it was all submerged.
As she stood by it in the quiet kitchen waiting for the allotted time to pass she became conscious of the sounds of the fair. She could hear the occasional shout of one man to another as they rigged up the booths or steadied machinery. There was a steady chugging noise which she guessed was the engine which provided the power for the roundabout and switch-back. Everything was tested carefully before the evening, and Ella could well imagine Mrs. Curdle making her rounds, ebony stick in hand, as she had done for so many May Days, before the fair opened to the customers on Thrush Green. It would be a pity if the rumor proved true, thought Ella, stirring her cauldron like some stout, preoccupied witch.
Time was up. Ella turned the gas off, cursing the rubber gloves which added to her habitual clumsiness. She surveyed the great pot with a doubtful eye. It was very heavy, she knew from long experience, and usually Dimity helped her lift it into the sink.
It was on the tip of her tongue to hail her unsuspecting friend above with her usual hearty exuberance. Dimity, she knew, would come readily tripping down the stairs, only too anxious to be of use. But today, with the milk of human kindness still pulsing its somewhat bewildered way through her veins, Ella decided, generously, to manage on her own.
Giving a tug to her maddening rubber gloves, Ella approached the stove. She gripped the two handles and gave a mighty heave. It certainly was heavy and she wondered, for a split second, if she should replace it.
But pride overcame caution. She gave a determined stagger toward the sink before disaster overtook her.
Whether, as she afterward maintained, the confounded rubber gloves slipped along the handles and shot the contents downward, or whether she caught her foot in the coconut matting, or whether, in fact, both calamities occurred, she was never quite clear. But, in one agonizing moment, the pot overturned, and fell, upside down, to the floor, cascading boiling dye
"Very well, dear," she said gratefully. "I'll go up, if you insist! But do put on your rubber gloves!"
She mounted the creaking stairs to the little bedroom above and turned a stoical ear to a dreadful crash, followed by a muttered imprecation, which shook the cottage.
"As long as it isn't mother's fruit bowl," thought Dimity anxiously, and climbed resignedly under the eider-down.
Having washed up the glass, silver and china, and carefully stacked the sticky casserole, caked with parsley sauce, a saucepan equally encrusted with mashed potato, a parsley cutter, a stained board on which the herb had been cut, and various other utensils used in the preparation of the meal, all upon the draining board to await Dimity's ministrations later, Ella felt aglow with righteousness.
It was really rather pleasant to have the kitchen to herself, she decided. She filled an enormous two-handled saucepan with water and set it on the gas stove ready for the dyeing. The rubber gloves annoyed her. They were slippery, and her hands felt clumsy in them, but she realized that she had better obey Dr. Lovell's injunctions if she were going to handle her painting materials.
She set about mixing the dye in an old enamel bowl. It was a beautiful deep red, and by the time it had been added to the hot water, it looked as luscious as wine.
Ella tested a scrap of the natural-colored linen she proposed to steep in it. It came out a satisfying rich shade and Ella sighed with pleasure. Little by little she let the length of stuff slide into the bubbling brew until it was all submerged.
As she stood by it in the quiet kitchen waiting for the allotted time to pass she became conscious of the sounds of the fair. She could hear the occasional shout of one man to another as they rigged up the booths or steadied machinery. There was a steady chugging noise which she guessed was the engine which provided the power for the roundabout and switch-back. Everything was tested carefully before the evening, and Ella could well imagine Mrs. Curdle making her rounds, ebony stick in hand, as she had done for so many May Days, before the fair opened to the customers on Thrush Green. It would be a pity if the rumor proved true, thought Ella, stirring her cauldron like some stout, preoccupied witch.
Time was up. Ella turned the gas off, cursing the rubber gloves which added to her habitual clumsiness. She surveyed the great pot with a doubtful eye. It was very heavy, she knew from long experience, and usually Dimity helped her lift it into the sink.
It was on the tip of her tongue to hail her unsuspecting friend above with her usual hearty exuberance. Dimity, she knew, would come readily tripping down the stairs, only too anxious to be of use. But today, with the milk of human kindness still pulsing its somewhat bewildered way through her veins, Ella decided, generously, to manage on her own.
Giving a tug to her maddening rubber gloves, Ella approached the stove. She gripped the two handles and gave a mighty heave. It certainly was heavy and she wondered, for a split second, if she should replace it.
But pride overcame caution. She gave a determined stagger toward the sink before disaster overtook her.
Whether, as she afterward maintained, the confounded rubber gloves slipped along the handles and shot the contents downward, or whether she caught her foot in the coconut matting, or whether, in fact, both calamities occurred, she was never quite clear. But, in one agonizing moment, the pot overturned, and fell, upside down, to the floor, cascading boiling dye
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