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But it
is of no use; I cannot do things as well as she can, and those tarts are
not like tarts at all; they are like chimneys."
"I expect they are very good indeed. Now do not drop another tear, and
let us go in and eat them."
"No," said Miriam, "they are not good. I know what is the matter with
them. I have found out that I have no more idea of making pie crust than
I have about the nebulous part of astronomy, and that I never could
comprehend. I wanted to make the lightest, puffiest pastry that was
possible, and I used some self-raising flour, the kind that has the yeast
ground up with it, and when I put those tarts in the oven to bake, they
just rose up, and rose up, until I thought they would reach up the
chimney. They are perfectly horrid."
Ralph sprang to his feet, and lifted his sister from her seat. "Come
along, little one," he cried, "and I shall judge for myself what sort of
a pastry-cook you are."
"The pigs shall judge that," said Miriam, who had now dried her eyes,
"but fortunately there are other things to eat.


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