"'Tis fresh cookies I've been baking," she announced smilingly. "I
don't suppose any one will be after wanting to sample 'em? Ye do?
Well, then, wipe your feet on the mat and come in. And, for the love
of goodness, leave the kitchen door open. I'm near perishing for a
breath of cool air."
The kitchen was very warm, for Norah had been ironing. She was a
thrifty soul, and when she had a big fire to heat her irons she liked
to bake good things to eat in the oven at the same time. A basket full
of beautifully ironed and starched clothes sat on the table, ready to
be carried upstairs, and a bowl of crisp sugar cookies sat beside it.
"Leave the door open," ordered Bobby, his eyes on the cookies. "My,
they look good, Norah. How many may we have?"
"Two apiece, and no more," said Norah firmly. "'Tis blunting your
appetite for supper if ye take more than two. Are they good, Twaddles?"
Twaddles' mouth was too full for an answer, but his eyes spoke for him.
Those cookies were simply delicious.
"Bobby!" cried Meg from the window where she had wandered with her
cakes. "Oh, Bobby, here's that horrid Tim Roon and Charlie Black.
Look! They're going to throw snowballs at our snow man."
There was a rush for the window. Sure enough there stood Tim Roon and
Charlie Black, just outside the fence, and as the four little Blossoms
watched, Tim flung a snowball smack at the poor defenseless snow man.
"Leave 'em alone," counseled Norah, putting a restraining hand on
Twaddles, who was making for the door.
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