But it was for another generation to put together cause and effect,
and wonder how far tainted water was responsible for the spread of
the fatal malady.

As Cherry entered the eating parlour, her two sisters looked up
from their tasks, as if with a smile of welcome. Jemima was busy
with the almond paste, which was an important ingredient of the
herring pie; Keziah was stoning the dates, grating the manchet, and
preparing the numerous other ingredients--currants, gooseberries,
barberries--which, being preserved in bottles in the spring and
summer, were always ready to hand in Mistress Susan's cookery. From
the open door of the kitchen proceeded a villainous smell of
herrings, which caused Cherry to turn up her pretty nose in a
grimace that set Keziah laughing. Both these elder damsels, who
were neither blooming nor pretty nor graceful, like their youngest
sister, though they bid fair to be excellent housewives and docile
and tractable spouses, delighted in the beauty and wit and
freshness of Cherry. They had never envied her her pretty ways and
charming face, but had taken the same pleasure in both that a
mother or affectionate aunt might do. They spoke of her and thought
of her as "the child," and if any hard or disagreeable piece of
work had to be done, they both vied with each other in contriving
that it should not fall to Cherry's lot.

Cherry, although she dearly loved her homely sisters, as well she
might, never could quite realize that they were her sisters, and
not her aunts. Although Keziah was only six years her senior, it
seemed more like ten, and Jemima had three years' start of Keziah.
They treated her with an indulgence rare between sisters, and from
the fact of their being so staid and grave for their years, Cherry