Spalpeens to eat my cakes, and on my baking days they are usually sent from the table howling. Norah declares, severely, that she is going to hide the Green Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah bought it in deference to Max’s love of German cookery. It is called Aunt Julchen’s cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour and butter, gets delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, rich cakes. She orders grandly: 

 “Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound of almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of orange-peel.” 

 As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to trifles like ounces of walnut meats, pounds of confectioner’s sugar, and pints of very rich cream. When cold, to be frosted with an icing made up of more eggs, more nuts, more cream, more everything. 

 The children have appointed themselves official lickers and scrapers of the spoons and icing pans, also official guides on their auntie’s walks. They regard their Aunt Dawn as a quite ridiculous but altogether delightful old thing. 

 And Norah—bless her! looks up when I come in from a romp with the Spalpeens and says: “Your cheeks are pink! Actually! And you’re losing a puff there at the back of your ear, and your hat’s on crooked. Oh, you are beginning to look your old self, Dawn dear!” 

 At which doubtful compliment I retort, recklessly: “Pooh! What’s a puff more or less, in a worthy cause? And if you think my cheeks are pink now, just wait until your mighty Von Gerhard comes again. By that time they shall be so red and bursting that Frieda’s, on wash day, will look anemic by comparison. Say, Norah, how red are German red cheeks, anyway?” 

 

CHAPTER III. GOOD AS NEW

 So Spring danced away, and Summer sauntered in. My pillows looked less and less tempting. The wine of the northern air imparted a cocky assurance. One blue-and-gold day followed the other, and I spent hours together out of doors in the sunshine, lying full length on the warm, sweet ground, to the horror of the entire neighborhood. To be sure, I was sufficiently discreet to choose the lawn at the rear of the house. There I drank in the atmosphere, as per doctor’s instructions, while the genial sun warmed the watery blood in my veins and burned the skin off the end of my nose. 

 All my life I had envied the loungers in the parks—those silent, 

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