"'And you will be sure to scald your fingers and get the worst of it,'" Puddy went on relentlessly. This struck Evelyn's fancy and she exclaimed: "Girls, I can just see Nannie's husband sitting in the doorway of their cabin blowing his fingers and wincing." "Can you?" said a voice, and the girls started as they saw Nannie standing between the curtains of the folding doors. Sometimes she resembled an elf in her weird beauty; just now she looked more like an imp. Something disagreeable might have ensued, for Nannie's temper was uncertain and undisciplined, but Prudence said in a presidential tone: "Young ladies, it is for you to decide how you will be served up in future. Will some one please make a motion?" "Oh, let's decide how each other will be served," said Hilda. "You know at church nobody applies any of the sermon to himself, but fits it all on to his neighbors." "Evelyn will be raked over the coals," said Nannie in a low, intense voice. Evelyn's handsome face flushed and her lips parted for a retort, but Hilda exclaimed: "Puddy will be made into delicious round croquets," and she smacked her lips with anticipatory relish. "Hilda'll be kept in a nice continual stew," retorted Puddy. "Nannie'll be parboiled, fried, fricasseed----" began Hilda, but Nannie exclaimed: "No, I'll be roasted--you see if I'm not!" "Prue will be baked in a genteel, modern way," said Evelyn. "Yes!" shouted Hilda, to get above the noise. "Girls, mark my words. Some day Mr. Smith, Brown, or Jones, whoever he is, will invite us all to a clambake, and when we arrive we'll find it's just dear old Prue served up." This hit at Prudence's usual silence struck the company forcibly, and after a little more from the recipe they broke up with noisy mirth. On the doorstep Nannie paused and looked about her. Puddy's last extract from the article under discussion was wandering through her brain, something as a cat wanders through a strange house. "Order a dressing as rich and as plentiful as you can afford." Nannie understood this well enough. She was wearing such a dressing at that very moment, but the next sentence puzzled her. "If you can't afford the best, heap your fish with crumbs of comfort. Press some of these into pretty shapes, such as hearts, and roses, and true lovers' knots. If you have neither the patience nor the skill to follow these directions, take my advice and don't go a-fishing."