"But, bless us, Miss Eleanor, you don't look much better for being in strange parts.
That young lady, too, looks as if she enjoyed poor health.

Well, give me native air, there's nothing like it; and you've not got back to yours too soon." Eleanor threw her arms round the cook, and danced her up and down the kitchen.
"Oh, dear cookey!" she cried; "I am so glad to be back again.

And do be kind to us, and give us tea-cakes, and brown bread toast, and let the dogs come in to tea." Cook pushed her away, but with a relenting face.
"There, there, Miss Eleanor.

Take that jug of hot water with you, and take the young lady up-stairs; and when you've cleaned yourselves, I'll have something for you to eat; and you may suit yourselves about the dogs,--I'm sure I don't want them.

You've not got so much more sensible with all your schooling," she added.
We went off to do her bidding, and left her muttering, "And what folks as can edicate their own children sends 'em all out of the house for, passes me; to come back looking like a damp handkerchief, with dear knows what cheap living and unwholesome ways, and want of native air." Cook's bark was worse than her bite.
"She gives the dear boys plenty to eat," said Eleanor; and she provided for us that evening in the same liberal spirit.
What a feast we had! Strong tea, and abundance of sugar and rich cream.
We laid the delicious butter on our bread in such thick clumps, that sallow-faced Madame would have thought us in peril of our lives.