She opened the door of the brick oven where Mrs. Dodd’s beans and their own had been baking since morning. The beans were baked perfectly in the round, brown pots, and their fragrant, appetizing odor filled the room. Looking about, before she went upstairs, Mary Jane felt that her mother would be satisfied with the appearance of the kitchen. The brass andirons in the fireplace and the shovel and tongs glowed from Abigail’s honest rubbing. The black pots and copper kettles had been cleaned inside and out and hooked on to the swinging frame. The waffle-irons and toaster hung on the side of the fireplace and the gridiron stood on its three slender legs beside the hearth. [Illustration: Plate III. Domestic Industry] [Illustration: Plate IV. Tea Time] [Illustration: Figure 18. Toasting-Rack _Revolving Rack_] [Illustration: Figure 19. A Gridiron] [Illustration: Figure 20. Knife-Tray] [Illustration: Figure 21. Spectacles and Bible] A small fire burned red on the hearth and a gentle cloud of steam rose from the bubbling kettle. The brass warming-pan made a blob of light against the dull red bricks. The dresser was white from its recent scrubbing and the pewter on it shone brightly. Grandmother’s blue plates and saucers had been rearranged on the plate rail and the spoons and white-handled knives laid back in the mahogany boxes on the dresser. John had whittled and smoothed those boxes for his mother in the winter evenings. The Bible, and the New England Primer and Father’s horned spectacles lay on the small table in the corner, and the cradle, with its new pink and white checked cover, stood near the fireplace. When Mother got up, the baby would lie in that all day. The floor looked nice and clean. It had been freshly sanded and the braided rugs laid carefully in their usual places before the hearth and doorways. The old gray cat had stretched himself near the fireplace, and his friend, the dog, slept beside him. Mary Jane noticed that the wind had blown awry Dorothy’s framed sampler which hung on the wall. She straightened it and read again the words: “Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee. Dorothy Ward Andrews.” She read the words soberly, and thought of her own good father. Picking up her clean cap and a basin of water, she started upstairs. A sudden clap of thunder shook the house and, with the first sprinkle of rain, the kitchen door blew open and Jenny Lewis dashed in.