“The cook took French leave this afternoon,” she explained cheerfully, when the noisy greetings were over, “and we couldn’t have much of anything for dinner because she took my cook-book with her, the wretch! I’ve sent my husband off to buy another, so I can find out about boiling the eggs for breakfast. You wipe, Betty; and Bob, you and Babe go down cellar and find some drift-wood for the library fire. It’s piled up near the furnace. Georgia, you can be putting away the dishes.”