“Is that Miranda? Oh—Mr. Pryor! Well, Mr. Pryor, will you kindly ask Miranda if she can come up this afternoon and help me with some sewing. It is very important, or I would not trouble her. Oh—thank you.”
Mr. Pryor had consented somewhat grumpily, but he had consented—he did not want to offend Dr. Blythe, and he knew that if he refused to allow Miranda to do any Red Cross work public opinion would make the Glen too hot for comfort. Rilla went out to the kitchen, shut all the doors with a mysterious expression which alarmed Susan, and then said solemnly.
“Susan, can you make a wedding cake this afternoon?”
“A wedding cake!” Susan stared. Rilla had, without any warning, brought her a war baby once upon a time. Was she now, with equal suddenness, going to produce a husband?
“Yes, a wedding cake—a scrumptious wedding cake, Susan,—a beautiful, plummy, eggy, citron-peely wedding cake. And we must make other things too. I’ll help you in the morning. But I can’t help you this afternoon for I have to make a wedding dress and time is the essence of the contract, Susan.”
Susan felt that she was really too old to be subjected to such shocks.
“Who are you going to marry, Rilla?”’ she asked feebly.
“Susan, darling, I am not the happy bride. Miranda Pryor is going to marry Joe Milgrave tomorrow afternoon while her father is away in town. A war wedding, Susan—isn’t that thrilling and romantic? I never was so excited in my life.”
