"I'm going to walk across the fields to Chericoke," she said, "and Hosea is
to bring the carriage for me about sunset. We must have some white silk to
make those flags out of, and there isn't a bit in the house."
She went out, stepping slowly in her wide skirts and holding the pitcher
carefully before her.
Floretta's baby was sleeping, and after a few pleasant words the girl kept
on to Chericoke. There she found that the Major had gone to town for news,
leaving Mrs. Lightfoot to her pickle making in the big storeroom, where the
earthenware jars stood in clean brown rows upon the shelves. The air was
sharp with the smell of vinegar and spices, and fragrant moisture dripped
from the old lady's delicate hands. At the moment she had forgotten the war
just beyond her doors, and even the vacant places in her household; her
nervous flutter was caused by finding the plucked corn too large to salt.
"Come in, child, come in," she said, as Betty appeared in the doorway.
"You're too good a housekeeper to mind the smell of brine."
"How the soldiers will enjoy it," laughed Betty in reply. "It's fortunate
that both sides are fond of spices."
The old lady was tying a linen cloth over the mouth of a great brown jar,
and she did not look up as she answered. "I'm not consulting their tastes,
my dear, though, as for that, I'm willing enough to feast our own men so
long as the Yankees keep away. This jar, by the bye, is filled with
'Confederate pickle'--it was as little as I could do to compliment the
Government, I thought, and the green tomato catchup I've named in honour of
General Beauregard.
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