Sara touched Pirlaps on the
arm.
"Mercy me!" cried Pirlaps, speaking softly, but forgetting in his
excitement to cover his mouth with his hand. "The table is quite empty,
and Avrillia has not come with the rest of the suet! Yassuh should
have brought more crumbs long ago. Let's go to the house and see
what's the trouble, Sara!"
They hurried to the house, and began looking everywhere. They even
opened the door of Avrillia's own bed-room, which was upholstered
entirely in pink morning-glory satin, with hangings of opalescent mist;
Sara thought it was quite the most ravishing place she had ever seen;
at least she though so until Pirlaps distractedly led her down into
the basement to Avrillia's kitchen. A smell of something delectable
scorching enveloped them as they opened the door. And there beside the
stove, all deliciously sticky and comfortable, lay Yassuh, fast asleep
and half melted; while little wisps of smoke curled out of the crack
between the oven and the door. The stove was almost as big as the tin
one Jimmy had given Sara for Christmas, but much more massive and
efficient-looking. On the table, looking so delicious that they made
your mouth water, were the ingredients with which Yassuh had been
working: a bubble-pitcher of milk-weed cream, a bowl of butterfly eggs
(the daintiest things!), a silver panful of flour from the best white
miller, and a large silk sack of snow-sugar from the Garden.
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