Chapter 14 OVER THE JAM-POTS.

One bright September morning Hildegarde was sitting in the dining-room, covering jam-pots. She had made the jam herself-peach marmalade it was, the best in the world, all golden-brown, like clear old amber-a day or two before, and now it was firm enough to cover. At her right hand was a pile of covers, thick white paper cut neatly in rounds, a sauc