Miss Roberta stood, her eyes contemplatively raised to the narrow window, through which she could see a flush of sunset mingling itself with the outer air; and Peggy scooped once, twice, thrice, four times; then she stopped, and, raising her head, there came into the far-away gloom of her eyes a quick sparkle like a flash of black lightning.

She made another and entirely supplementary scoop, and then she stopped, and let the tin utensil fall into the barrel with a gentle thud.
"That will do," said Miss Roberta.
That night, when she should have been in her bed, Peggy sat alone by the hearth in Aunt Judy's cabin, baking a cake.

It was a peculiar cake, for she could get no sugar for it, but she had supplied this deficiency with molasses.

It was made of Miss Roberta's finest white flour, and eggs there were in it and butter, and it contained, besides, three raisins, an olive, and a prune.

When the outside of the cake had been sufficiently baked, and every portion of it had been scrupulously eaten, the good little Peggy murmured to herself: "It's pow'ful comfortin' for Miss Rob to have sumfin' on her min'.".