In response Amenda presented herself, calm and respectful.
"Do you know that the proper time for breakfast is half-past eight,
Amenda?"
"Yes'm."
"And do you know that it's now nearly nine?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, isn't breakfast ready?"
"No, mum."
"Will it _ever_ be ready?"
"Well, mum," replied Amenda, in a tone of genial frankness, "to tell you
the truth, I don't think it ever will."
"What's the reason? Won't the fire light?"
"Oh yes, it lights all right."
"Well, then, why can't you cook the breakfast?"
"Because before you can turn yourself round it goes out again."
Amenda never volunteered statements. She answered the question put to
her and then stopped dead. I called downstairs to her on one occasion,
before I understood her peculiarities, to ask her if she knew the time.
She replied, "Yes, sir," and disappeared into the back kitchen. At the
end of thirty seconds or so, I called down again. "I asked you, Amenda,"
I said reproachfully, "to tell me the time about ten minutes ago."
"Oh, did you?" she called back pleasantly. "I beg your pardon. I
thought you asked me if I knew it--it's half-past four."
Ethelbertha inquired--to return to our fire--if she had tried lighting it
again.
"Oh yes, mum," answered the girl. "I've tried four times.
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