“Oh! How warm it is in here!” she exclaimed. “What are you cooking? It has me hoping that dinner isn’t far off.”
“Just some scraps of beef and noodles for the broth,” Mother answered. “George told you I have a quilt in, and I’m glad you’ve come to help in the quilting.
It was only ten o’clock when they sat down together at the quilt. How their needles and tongues did fly! Laughter too, rippled along merrily. At eleven Mother fixed the fires, put the potatoes in the oven, stirred up some cup cakes, brought a relish and a jar of red raspberries from the cellar, spread a clean cloth, and set the table for three.
Mrs. Smith, quilting on, listened to Mother’s flying steps. Tabby, stretched by the fire, was the picture of comfort. There was a new smell of baking potatoes and cake. Brewing tea added its fragrance. The cold scurried over the floor as Father entered.
“I stopped in at the henhouse,” he said. “Eight eggs. Not so bad for this cold day. Hello? Got company?”
“Sure! Mable came over to help with the quilt.”
“Hello, George,” came from the sitting room. “No, I didn’t come to quilt. I came to escape a little of this dreadful winter. Some way, it’s never winter in Bess Worth’s house.”
“Now, don’t brag on my wife,” Father said banteringly. “It’s all I can do to live with her without that.”