Uncle Roger roared when he heard it; and he roared again at night over Peter’s account of Felix attempting to milk a cow. Felix had previously acquired the knack of extracting milk from the udder. But he had never before tried to “milk a whole cow.” He did not get on well; the cow tramped on his foot, and finally upset the bucket. “What are you to do when a cow won’t stand straight?” spluttered Felix angrily. “That’s the question,” said Uncle Roger, shaking his head gravely. Uncle Roger’s laughter was hard to bear, but his gravity was harder. Meanwhile, in the pantry the Story Girl, apron-enshrouded, was being initiated into the mysteries of bread-making. Under Felicity’s eyes she set the bread, and on the morrow she was to bake it. “The first thing you must do in the morning is knead it well,” said Felicity, “and the earlier it’s done the better--because it’s such a warm night.” With that we went to bed, and slept as soundly as if tragedies of blue chests and turnips and crooked cows had no place in the scheme of things at all. CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD PROVERB WITH A NEW MEANING It was half-past five when we boys got up the next morning. We were joined on the stairs by Felicity, yawning and rosy. “Oh, dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose the fire is on anyhow, for the Story Girl is up. I guess she got up early to knead the bread. She couldn’t sleep all night for worrying over it.” The fire was on, and a flushed and triumphant Story Girl was taking a loaf of bread from the oven. “Just look,” she said proudly. “I have every bit of the bread baked. I got up at three, and it was lovely and light, so I just gave it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven. And it’s all done and out of the way. But the loaves don’t seem quite as big as they should be,” she added doubtfully. “Sara Stanley!” Felicity flew across the kitchen. “Do you mean that you put the bread right into the oven after you kneaded it without leaving it to rise a second time?” The Story Girl turned quite pale. “Yes, I did,” she faltered. “Oh, Felicity, wasn’t it right?” “You’ve ruined the bread,” said Felicity flatly. “It’s as heavy as a stone. I declare, Sara Stanley, I’d rather have a little common sense than be a great story teller.” Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl’s mortification. “Don’t tell Uncle Roger,” she implored humbly. “Oh, I won’t tell him,” promised Felicity amiably. “It’s lucky there’s enough old bread to do to-day. This will go to the hens. But it’s an awful waste of good flour.” The Story Girl crept out with Felix and me to the morning orchard, while Dan and Peter went to do the barn work. “It isn’t ANY use for me to try to learn to cook,” she said. “Never mind,” I said consolingly. “You can tell splendid stories.” “But what good would that do a hungry boy?” wailed the Story Girl. “Boys ain’t ALWAYS hungry,” said Felix gravely. “There’s times when they ain’t.”