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Updated: May 1, 2025
"If you can squeeze into the dining-room, and if you can do with just cream-toast for tea," she explained, "it would be such fun to have you come. I can't give you anything to eat to speak of, because I haven't any cook, you know; but you can all eat a great deal of dinner, and then you won't starve."
Parlin's that evening. It was already dusk, and the large globe lamp, with its white porcelain shade, gave a cheery glow to the pleasant dining-room. First, there was cream-toast, made of the whitest bread, and the sweetest cream. "This makes me think of Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "I hope she is living yet." "She is," said Margaret, "but twelve years old."
"Did Papa eat any dinner?" asked Katy, one afternoon. "Not much. He said he wasn't hungry. And Mrs. Jackson's boy came for him before we were through." "Oh dear!" sighed Katy, "I do hope he isn't going to be sick. How it rains! Clovy, I wish you'd run down and get out his slippers and put them by the fire to warm. Oh, and ask Debby to make some cream-toast for tea! Papa likes cream-toast."
Clover's cream-toast, which she prepared before their eyes on the blazer, her little tarts made of crackers split, buttered, and toasted brown with a spoonful of raspberry jam in each, and the big loaf of hot ginger-bread to be eaten with thick cream from the High Valley, were pronounced each in its way to be absolute perfection.
"I didn't let you know because I wanted to see if you would be a good girl enough to tell me of your own accord, and I'm glad you have, Comfort." Then Comfort's mother carried her almost bodily back to the warm kitchen and sat her before the fire to toast her feet, while she made some cream-toast for her supper. Her grandmother had a peppermint in her pocket, and she slid it into Comfort's hand.
She merely showed it silently to Grandmother Atkins behind Comfort's back, and they nodded to each other with solemn meaning. However, Mrs. Pease made the cream-toast that Comfort loved for supper, and obliged her to eat a whole plate of it. "I can't have her get sick," she said to Grandmother Atkins after Comfort had gone to bed that night.
This last sentence was Phil's, and I fear he had peeped a little, or his context would not have been so apropos; but altogether the "cream-toast swarry," as he called it, was a pronounced success. It was not long after this that a mysterious little cloud of difference seemed to fall on Thurber Wade.
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