"Yes, it is time," returned Molly. "I want to try a lemon pudding for dessert, if he likes them, and it takes ever so much time, I know. We must feed him up well, so he won't look thin to your mother when, she gets back." "Let's see how the oven is," said Polly, pulling open the door and peering in. "It feels nice and warm, so perhaps we'd better go to work." "Where are your cook-books?" demanded Molly. "Here." And Polly brought out a number of books and pamphlets. "We ought to find a rule in some of these." Molly possessed herself of the largest. "'Marion Holland'--no, 'Harland,'" she read. "Oh, I've heard of her! I'll look in this, and you take another. Let's see, where's the index? 'Soups--fish--poultry--meats--company.' Oh, where is it? 'Eggs--cake.' That sounds like it. 'Servants--puddings.' At last! 'Apple--cottage--cracker--lemon.' Here are two lemon puddings, Polly." And Molly glanced up to see Polly, with an anxious frown, reading intently from her own small book. She looked up, in her turn, to answer,-- "Here's another, so you read yours and then I'll read mine, and we'll see which we like best." "'One cup of sugar, four eggs, two tablespoons cornstarch, two lemons, one pint milk, one tablespoon butter,'" read Molly. "You get your milk hot and put in the starch and boil five minutes-- Oh, there's a lot more to do! Just see here." Both heads were bent over the book. Then Polly exclaimed,-- "Mine is easier, I know. Listen: 'A quarter of a pound of suet, half a pound of bread crumbs, four ounces of sugar, the juice of two lemons, the grated rind of one, and one egg. Boil it well in an _Agate_ pot, and serve with sauce.'" There was an expressive pause. "Yours is better, after all," said Polly. "I don't know what suet is, but I don't believe we have any; and besides, it's ever so much easier to measure cups than pounds." The girls enveloped themselves in gingham aprons and set to work. Polly rummaged in store-room and pantry, and brought out the necessary materials for the pudding, while Molly measured and mixed. "Polly," she called suddenly, in a tone of distress. 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.