BETTY WALES, with a red bandanna knotted tightly over all her yellow curls--except one or two particularly rebellious ringlets that positively refused to be hidden--pattered softly down the back stairs of the Wales cottage at Lakeside. Softly, because mother was taking her afternoon nap and must on no account be disturbed. Betty lifted a lid of the kitchen range, peered anxiously in at the glowing coals, and nodded approvingly at them for being so nice and red. Then she opened the ice-box, just for the supreme satisfaction of gazing once more upon the six big tomatoes that she had peeled and put away to cool right after lunch--which is the only proper time to begin getting dinner for a fasti…
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