What would the end be? she asked
herself in sudden anguish, or was this the end?
Reaching Chericoke she found Mrs. Lightfoot and Aunt Rhody drying sliced
sweet potatoes on boards along the garden fence, where the sunflowers and
hollyhocks flaunted in the face of want.
"I've just gotten a new recipe for coffee, child," the old lady began in
mild excitement. "Last year I made it entirely of sweet potatoes, but Mrs.
Blake tells me that she mixes rye and a few roasted chestnuts. Mr.
Lightfoot took supper with her a week ago, and he actually congratulated
her upon still keeping her real old Mocha. Be sure to try it."
"Indeed I shall--the very next time Hosea gets any sweet potatoes. Some
raiders have just dug up the last with their sabres and eaten them raw."
"Well, they'll certainly have colic," remarked Mrs. Lightfoot, with
professional interest.
"I hope so," said Betty, "but I've come over to beg something for mamma's
supper--eggs, chickens, anything except bacon. She can't touch that, she'd
starve first."
Looking anxious, Mrs. Lightfoot appealed to Aunt Rhody, who was busily
spreading little squares of sweet potatoes on the clean boards. "Rhody,
can't you possibly find us some eggs?" she inquired.
Aunt Rhody stopped her work and turned upon them all the dignity of two
hundred pounds of flesh.
"How de hens gwine lay w'en dey's done been eaten up?" she demanded.
"Isn't there a single chicken left?" hopelessly persisted the old lady.
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