Fallen Angel

are of the supremest indifference to me.”
“Tush,” said Janet, not the least abashed by Maddie’s chilling manner. “Yer temper got the better o’ ye again, I make no doubt. Here, make yerself useful,” she ordered and pointed to the apron which habitually hung from a hook on the back of the kitchen door.
For the next half hour or so, Maddie, as she had so often done in the past, put the finishing touches to Janet’s labours. On each small pot of jam which stood cooling on the plain deal kitchen table, she placed a small circle of oiled paper and topped it with tissue paper which had been dipped in the white of an egg. Last of all, she bound the covers securely with string.
“Ten pounds,” said Maddie, counting the jars, “and a little left over for a fresh batch of scones.” Her eyes lit expectantly