"I won't mess, truly, Aunt Maria," and thankful at receiving even this grudging permission, she flew out into the tiny kitchen to the pleasant task of candy-making, reciting, as she rattled among the pots and pans: "Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. One cup of molasses, one cup of sugar--that molasses looks awfully black; I wonder if the taffy will be dark. I like the light-colored best. 'Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play.' A lump of butter and a tablespoon of vinegar. How pretty the stuff looks boiling up higher and higher every minute. Hm, but it's hot work bending over this stove. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. My! I would like to have been there and watched them. Isn't Horatius a splendid name! And Herminius--isn't it grand! But they are like Dionysius, no one ever uses them nowadays. I believe that candy is almost done. It is brittle when I put it into water. Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he." She seized the kettle of boiling syrup and lifted it off the stove, still speaking the impassioned lines of that stirring poem, and gesticulating wildly, heedless of the utensils in her hands. "So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide." Bang! went the kettle against a chair-back, and the seething, bubbling mess of sticky brown syrup poured in a flood over furniture, girl and floor, and trickled in a rivulet around the brim of her father's hat carelessly laid on the table while he wrestled with a refractory buckle on his grip, packed ready for his departure. A gasp of dismay escaped her lips, and Tabitha stood aghast in the midst of the ruin. "Tabitha Catt!" exclaimed the aunt, appearing that moment in the doorway. "Tabitha Catt!" echoed the father, looking up at the sound of the crash. "I never saw such carelessness in my life. Look at that hat! My best, too!" "You needn't have left it on the table; that's no place for your wardrobe," burst out the indignant Tabitha, sucking one blistered finger, and frantically shaking her foot where the hot drops of syrup had clung and burned. Her unfortunate words were like oil to a flame. "I'll have none of your impertinence, young lady," cried the irate father, seizing her by the shoulder none too gently and giving her a shake. "You deserve to be trounced."