CHAPTER XLI.

The Baby—Conclusion 269

TEN DOLLARS ENOUGH.

CHAPTER I.

MR. AND MRS. BISHOP TRY THE EXPERIMENT.

“BEEF steak, cod steak, mutton chop, and hash!”

This bill of fare, glibly rattled off by a neat waitress, promised

a very satisfying breakfast, supplemented as it was by abundant

cream-of-tartar biscuit and potatoes. Yet Mrs. Bishop thought this

morning, as she had done for three hundred out of the three hundred and

sixty-five mornings she had heard it, she would gladly have exchanged

all for a cup of really fine coffee, a fresh egg, and some good

home-made bread and butter. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Bishop were

boarding, and doing so at a very good house, for the money they were

able to pay,—$20 per week for the two. Yet to this couple, reared with

luxury and refinement, the very abundance was nauseating.

“You ate no breakfast again, Puss. What am I to do with you?”

“Oh, I shall do very well. I am sure one has nothing to complain of,

and if Mrs. Jones were to cater to _our_ tastes she would not satisfy

her other boarders.”

“Yes, there is a coarse substantial abundance about it, that always

strikes me with wonder as to how it is done for the money”—

“And yet, Harry, wouldn’t you enjoy a nice little breakfast for our two

selves? Oh, if we could only keep house!”

“My darling, I wish to keep house just as much as you do, but with my

income such housekeeping would be very different from what you think.

You would have to limit the clean table-cloths and napkins, and stint

yourself in everything, to make both ends meet.”

“I wish I could convince you, Harry, that it need not be so. You don’t

know what a good manager I should be.”

“Dear little woman, I couldn’t have you make a drudge of yourself,

and believe me, you don’t realize the difference between practice and

theory. I know several men who have good, self-denying wives, and just

my income, but I could not look forward to the narrowness of such

houses as theirs, nor wish to see you in one. While we are boarding we

can’t pretend to have a home; there is no temptation to ask a friend to

a meal, no shame if one comes and it isn’t good.”

Mrs. Bishop turned a smiling face on her husband.

“That is the secret, Harry. You are afraid of being ashamed of my

housekeeping. Shall I promise you that you shall never dread to bring

a friend home for fear of a soiled table-cloth, and a too economical

dinner? I assure you I haven’t been to cooking-schools for nothing.”

“You dear enthusiast! If it were not for your own sake I’d let you try.”

Mrs. Bishop executed a little dance of joy.

“Oh, Harry, you can’t go back on that, you mustn’t! Do let us go

through this winter in our own house.”

Mr. Bishop only said, taking out his watch—

“By Jove! I have only time to catch the car. Goodbye, dear.” Pressing a

hearty kiss on her soft cheek, he rushed down the stairs and out of the

house.

There was quite a little romance about this young couple, which I will

relate here, that those who may follow the young wife’s trials and

triumphs may understand some that she had to fear. Harry Bishop was the

son of a prosperous merchant, who, as is the fashion in this America

of ours, lived almost like a prince on the profits of his business,

but, as his family was large, and his wife ambitious and extravagant,

it was not very certain that he would be able to provide a fortune for

each of his children. For this reason he and Mrs. Bishop were anxious

that those children should marry money.

When Harry declared his intention of marrying, instead of the rich Miss

Vanderpool his mother had looked out for him, pretty, penniless Molly

Marsh, the anger and disappointment at home had been very great, and

although it is not the fashion in this country to cast off the sons and

daughters who make rash marriages, they did the next thing to it,—they

disapproved so strongly that Molly rarely visited the grand home Harry

had given up to marry her, and Harry’s father in his anger had said:

“Do you remember, sir, that your paltry salary wouldn’t pay the rent of

a house in a decent location? and you propose to keep a wife on it! One

thing you may be sure, ‘as you make your bed so you must lie,’ and when

you have a mass of unpaid bills, you mustn’t look to _me_ to pay ’em.”

“I never will, sir. I am sorry for Molly’s sake you take it like this,

but I hope in time you will see that I am right to choose happiness

instead of riches.”

And then Harry’s mother had pictured the sordid home kept on $100 a

month, and derisively asked if he supposed he would be happy after

the honeymoon was over, eating common coarse food in a shabby little

dining-room.

“The idea of it! You are the last person, Harry, to content yourself in

that way. Why, you criticise even my cook; how will you do with no cook

at all?”

“I shouldn’t criticise, dear mother, if you did the cooking.”

They had been married a year now, and Molly and Harry paid rare visits

to his father’s house, and she, poor young wife, was made to feel how

much her husband had sacrificed for her, and she knew, good as Harry

was, he would be rather exacting in his own home; that, though for love

of her he might not express himself, small deficiencies would jar on

him, and that in beginning to keep house she would be undertaking a

great deal.

“But that will be my share. If by devoting time to my housekeeping, I

can make Harry’s money go half as far again as it would otherwise do, I

shall do as much as if I earned half as much as he.”

And so during that year of boarding and leisure, Molly had attended

cooking-classes, with a married friend, and had gone home with her and

they had practiced together. She had read, too, everything she could

find about housekeeping, and Harry laughed, sometimes, till the tears

ran down his cheeks at what he called her “paper housekeeping.”

Yet her pictures of that ideal home they were to have were very

alluring to him too, and this particular morning, when their

boarding-house life had lasted just one year, her words had taken

deeper hold than ever before. That evening he returned with a very

mysterious look on his face.

“What is the matter, Harry?” asked Molly, merrily. “What plot are you

brewing?”

“How would you like to pass a winter in the country?”

“I shouldn’t mind. Why do you ask?”

“Because we can put your longed-for experiment to the test. John

Winfield is going to take his wife to Europe on the first of September,

and wants to let his cottage furnished for the bare rent he pays: $20

per month.”

“Oh, Harry! and we will take it? It is such a cozy little place.”

“Yes, dear, I think we may venture on this experiment. If it happens

that we tire of housekeeping in a few months, we shall not be burdened

with furniture that we don’t want, and if you are as happy as you

think, we can take a little house and furnish it.”

Mrs. Bishop looked the joy she felt, and all that evening they were

discussing plans and prospects.

Many of my readers will wonder, perhaps, why this young couple looked

upon beginning housekeeping on Harry’s income as such a tremendous

experiment, when so many live and bring up families on much less.

But there was no disguising the fact that Harry’s bringing-up in his

father’s luxurious house had made him fastidious, and he shrank from

the too frugal table that he associated with such means, and, even

more, the necessity of foregoing in his own house the refinement he

had been accustomed to. This lack being in the house of another person

irked him less.

Molly’s dread was mixed with a trembling desire to show her husband

what sort of a wife he had married.

“I feel just a doll while boarding, with nothing to think of but my

clothes. You don’t know whether I am fit to be a helpmeet or not,”

she had often said, and he had replied, “My darling, I take it all on

faith; you are too good for me, even if you could not sew on a button.”

But Molly’s trembling did not come from fear of facing life in a

cottage. She knew herself, but she did think that Harry might grow to

repent the step. She feared also the criticism of his mother, ever

watchful for a trip on her part.

Ah! what agony it would be to her, if her husband should ever regret

the sacrifice he had made! But from such thoughts as these, that kept

her awake far into the night while Harry slept soundly at her side, she

would turn to a vision of herself as a triumphant little matron.

“I cannot fail! My time and ingenuity will certainly supply the

deficiency of money.”

Molly had kept house for an invalid mother, who, for economy’s sake,

had lived in a small French town, and after her mother’s death she had

found herself forced to earn her living as governess, for her mother’s

income died with her.

Thus, although she had often told Harry she could keep house, he

had smiled, pinched her cheek, and told her she did not realize the

difference between keeping house in France and doing so in America,

with a newly imported Bridget for _aide de cuisine_, and as Molly did

not like to boast, she had to let him keep his own opinion. But oh, how

she longed to show him what unknown resources lay within her! And now

the chance was hers.

After the first joyful hour, she behaved very soberly. She would take

as a matter of course all Harry’s misgivings as to the commissariat

department, for I am sorry to say Harry Bishop, although a Harvard

graduate, and a fairly intellectual young man, did think a great deal

of the enjoyment of life consisted in a good table, by which he meant

not good food only, but good cooking and dainty service, and how they

were to have this on $100 per month he could not see, unless his income

were all spent for servants and food. When he told this to Molly she

said:

“No, I propose that we keep house, and spend exactly what we do for

this one room and our board; that is, $80 per month. It must be divided

in this way: $20 for rent (we must never go beyond that), $12 for

servant, and $10 a week for housekeeping; that is, $77 a month. The

three remaining dollars, with the four or five we now spend for car

fare, will buy your commutation ticket.”

“$10 a week for housekeeping! I am afraid you’ll find that will make

a poor show, little wife,” he said caressingly. “I shall think we

are happy and fortunate, if the $20 we now allow for our clothes and

outside expenses will cover the deficit at the end of the month.”

“You’ll see $10 is enough.”

He laughed good-humoredly.

“I guess, Pussy, we shall both see things grow ‘small by degrees and

beautifully less,’ toward the end of each month.”

“We’ll hope not,” said Molly meekly, for now that she hoped her hour of

trial and triumph was coming, she could afford to let him anticipate

evil.

CHAPTER II.

AT HOME.

ON the 1st of September our young couple took possession of their new

house.

It was a small house, or rather cottage, in the fashionable New Jersey

town of Greenfield, and contained a dining-room, sitting-room and

kitchen on the first floor, and four rooms above arranged as bed-room,

guest-room, servants’ room and sewing-room. It was as slightly built as

a house could be, probably, yet in better taste than most houses of its

class, and Mrs. Winfield’s taste in furnishing was excellent, so that

even Harry’s fastidious eye was satisfied.

As for Molly, she spent her first hour in the house promenading from

room to room, such a luxurious idea of freedom and space did that small

house give her.

“Think, Harry! We can actually change rooms when we like.”

“Poor little Molly, I did not know that you had hated boarding so, or I

should not have refused to try this experiment long ago. I did it for

your sake.”

“Never mind, we’ll have such a good time now, that we won’t think of

anything else.”

“What time is your Gretchen to arrive?”

“Not Gretchen, but Marta. She came an hour ago, while you were seeing

to the baggage, and is busy down stairs, where I must go to her if we

are to have any lunch, while you put your books in order.”

“Oh, lunch! Never mind lunch to-day, bread and cheese will do”—

“Oh, no!” said Molly, shaking her head and laughing, “I’ve brought you

from the land of abundance; I must take care that you are not made to

suffer the first day.”

Marta, Molly’s servant, was a newly arrived German girl whom she had

had the courage to take from Castle Garden.

“She will be as green as grass, Molly,” Harry had said.

“Yes, I know, but at least it is better she should know nothing than

know how to do things badly; it is easier to teach than to unteach.”

“All right, my dear, we will go to Castle Garden, then, and interview a

new arrival from Germany.”

They did so, and found a thick, short, strong, but stupid-looking girl

was the only one whom it seemed possible to take into the house. Molly

was a little crestfallen, so far did Marta seem from what she had hoped

to meet with. Yet she asked only $10 per month.

“That is $2.00 to the good,” thought Molly, “and by promising her $12

when she can do my work as I wish, she will have something to work

for. I believe that is where people make a mistake in our country. The

incompetent girls, if they have only impudence enough to ask it, get as

good wages as the competent.”

Marta had arrived with two very large trunks, each of them no doubt the

Thuringian equivalent for a Saratoga, at which excess of baggage Molly

had marveled. Molly had taken her to her room, and told her to go down

when ready and begin taking things out of the kitchen closets. This she

had heard her doing when Harry had asked when she was to arrive.

Molly found Marta attired in what seemed a green baize skirt, very

short; worked zephyr slippers with thick soles, quite new and very

large, over gray knitted worsted stockings, also apparently new. Over

the skirt she wore a clean cotton camisole or sacque. Evidently Marta

was dressed with strict attention to her début in a new place, and was

satisfied that her slippers were as attractive as they were no doubt

comfortable.

Molly wanted to know exactly what was in the kitchen closets, so that

she might see what she had to work with, therefore she had set Marta

to clean them out, although Mrs. Winfield had left everything in such

excellent order that it was not absolutely necessary this first day.

It was eleven o’clock, and Molly, although she had laughed at Harry’s

anxiety to eat bread and cheese, had decided that it would be best

to have a luncheon that would be as little trouble as possible, yet

one that should not seem at all a makeshift, so sensitive was she to

Harry’s good-natured criticism.

She ordered in the morning what she thought might be a month’s supplies

of groceries, and for the day’s use:

2 heads of lettuce, $ .06

1 melon, .10

2 quarts peaches, .12

1 can of boned chicken, .50

Forequarter of lamb, 8 pounds, 1.12

2 pounds of butter, .50

2 dozen eggs, .50

———

Total, $2.90

Milk had been left at the house by Mrs. Winfield’s man, and ice also,

and bread by the baker.

She intended to have for lunch to-day chicken salad, omelette and drop

biscuit and coffee, all of which could, she knew, be prepared in three

quarters of an hour, so she helped Marta dust and replace the utensils

in their places, and made notes of what was lacking for her use,

although, as economy was her object, she decided to do with as little

addition to what was in the house as possible.

She called Marta’s attention as they replaced each article, telling her

its English name, and bidding her remember its place and keep it there.

Marta spoke no English, but Molly spoke fair German, and she managed to

make her understand. As the clock struck twelve, Molly took her into

the dining-room to lay the luncheon cloth; she showed her how it must

be done, that the fold must be just in the centre, the salt-cellars

always neat and smooth, a soiled knife never put on, and as she went

through these necessary instructions, the thought crossed her mind,

how frivolous and useless these little niceties must seem to a girl to

whom perhaps even a table-cloth had hitherto been an unknown luxury.

What wonder that it was in these small things so difficult to train one?

When the table was ready, Molly ran into the little garden, and

gathered a few red geranium flowers and their leaves, and arranged them

in a glass for the centre of the table.

“This is one of the charms of the country; even in a tiny garden like

this, one can always have a spray of flowers for the table,” thought

Molly.

It was now a quarter past twelve, and one thing that Marta must be

taught was punctuality. At one o’clock lunch was to be, and as Molly

would prepare it to-day, it should not be a minute behind.

“Come, Marta, I want to show you how to make biscuit; but first we must

look to the fire.”

Molly had made it herself before Marta arrived, and knew it was good

and the oven hot, but she wanted to impress on her handmaiden the

necessity of assuring herself that it was good, before beginning to

cook.

“I set the damper this way, so that the oven would heat as soon as the

fire is burning well, Marta. You see it is hot, and also,” taking off

the stove lid, “that there is fire enough to last; always make sure of

that, so that you will not find yourself with a poor fire in the middle

of cooking.”

This Molly managed to convey by words and actions, and Marta nodded

comprehension.

“Now then, as we are such a small family, I take a pint of flour only,

and a scant dessert-spoonful of butter, and rub it in the flour this

way, do you see? until it is just like sand. Now I add a salt-spoonful

of salt, two tea-spoonfuls of sugar, and a small tea-spoonful of

baking-powder; be very careful of the proportions, for it is just by

doing this that you are sure never to have days when things turn out

wrong; they cannot do that, if _you_ are exact and right.

“Now mix all thoroughly, and you see I take this scant half pint of

milk; I make a hole in the flour and pour it partly in, stirring as

I do it, and if I see it needs more in order to keep it the stiffest

kind of batter or the softest kind of dough, I add it; it takes all the

half pint, you see, but with flour you can’t be quite sure of the exact

quantity, and a tea-spoonful too much would make it too thin. Now, you

see, it is so very thick I can hardly stir it, yet it is far from being

stiff enough to knead. Butter that tin pan and give it to me.”

Marta understood the order, but began slowly to spread butter from the

end of a knife. Molly took a bit of white paper, and taking the pan

from her quickly, for the biscuit had now to be got into the oven as

soon as possible, she rubbed a bit of butter over it.

“Too many cooks spoil the broth, Marta. If I had been working quite

alone I should have greased my pan before beginning; it is very bad

management to leave it.” As she spoke she was taking the paste on the

end of her spoon, and dropping it in little oblong mounds on the pan,

about two inches apart. In another minute they were in the oven, which

was very hot.

“My mother used to pride herself on these biscuits, and gave herself

fifteen minutes to make and bake them. Now for the salad.”

Molly quickly opened the can of chicken she had bought, and cut the

contents in half; one portion she turned out on a dish, and set the

other aside to go into the ice-box. Then she set Marta to open olives

and salad oil, while she herself cut the chicken into small pieces,

removing every bit of skin that was on it. When the olives were open,

she took a small, sharp, knife and calling Marta’s attention to an

olive, she cut into it till the edge of the knife touched the stone,

and then began to peel that stone, as it were, being careful not to

break the peel, and keeping close to the stone. When the knife had

passed all around, the stone was in her left thumb and finger, the peel

or stoned olive in her right. The stone was bare except at the ends,

and the olive peel curled back into its old form, minus those ends.

“Now, Marta, see if you can stone six olives as I did that. Never mind

if you break the first.”

Molly saw Marta start right, then she poured out a table-spoonful of

oil and a half one of vinegar, a salt-spoonful of salt, and a scant

half one of pepper. These she mixed thoroughly and poured over the

chicken, taking care that it should go well through it. Then she looked

into the oven. The biscuits had been in five minutes; they had puffed

up and were nearly done.

When first the groceries had come, Molly, mindful of her mayonnaise,

had put an egg, bowl, and spoon in the ice-box, and, had the day been

hot, she would have put the oil there too. She went for them now, and

knew that the minute it took her to get them had sufficed to give the

biscuit just the tint she wanted, a pale golden brown; she took them

out and set them in the warming-closet of the range, and returned to

her salad. She wanted Marta to wash the lettuce, but having set her to

stone olives was careful not to take her from that task.

“My bad management,” she thought. “I ought to have set her to wash the

lettuce, and leave it drying in a cloth while she did the olives.”

Marta had managed to cut three or four olives into small pieces, but

had evidently not seized the idea. Molly stoned another one for her,

and then Marta once more began.

“Now, Marta, I want you to stone those and then to wash the lettuce,

putting each leaf on a clean cloth as you do it. I am going to make a

mayonnaise sauce, which I must show you another day.”

She broke the egg, putting the white into a cup, the yolk into her

ice-cold bowl, and began to stir it. This she did for a few seconds,

and then added a few drops of oil, stirred just long enough for it

to disappear in the yolk, then added a very little more, and so on,

stirring steadily, waiting till the last oil was blended before adding

more. When it had once assumed the pale opaque yellow that told her the

mayonnaise had “come,” she added oil in rather larger quantities. Five

minutes after this point the mayonnaise was as thick as butter in warm

weather; a little more oil and it could no longer be stirred, for it

clung to the spoon.

“Now, Marta, you see when it gets like this I add a few drops of

vinegar, which changes the color,—whitens it,—but stirring a few

seconds blends the vinegar, and it now is like very thick cream. I can

go on adding oil now till it is very thick again.”

When it had again reached the unmanageable point Molly put to it,

gradually, a half dessert-spoonful of vinegar (which she had ordered

to be very strong), a salt-spoonful of salt, and a very little white

pepper; she then tasted it and found it would stand a few drops more

vinegar for Harry’s taste, as he liked it rather sharp.

Marta had finished the olives fairly well, and had the lettuce drying

on the cloth.

“Grind two table-spoonfuls of coffee, Marta. Wait, I’ll tighten the

screw of the mill, while you put that French coffee-pot on the back of

the stove to get warm.”

Molly placed the dry end of the cloth over the lettuce leaves and

patted them, resolving that a salad-basket must be an immediate

purchase. She took the leaves, now free from water, and laid them over

the salad-dish, reserving the whitest for the border; then she placed

the chicken in the centre, mixing with it the pieces of olive Marta had

broken in her first attempts, and smoothing it with a knife

The mayonnaise would have been all the better if it could have stood

in the ice-box half an hour; and, another time, she would have it made

early on the day it was wanted; however, it was thick enough to mask

the chicken, only less would have answered the purpose had it been ice

cold. She spread it with a knife evenly, then laid the stoned olives

around at intervals—and the salad was ready.

The coffee being ground, she gave the salad to Marta to take to the

ice-box for the twenty minutes that would elapse before lunch-time,

while she broke three eggs and separated them, and when Marta returned

gave her the whites to beat to a high froth. While she was doing

that, Molly got the frying-pan, put a table-spoonful of butter in it,

and set both to get hot; then she poured boiling water through the

coffee-pot (in case it might not have been used lately), threw it out,

and put two full table-spoonfuls of coffee (ground much finer than

the grocer does it, being, in fact, about like coarse corn meal) into

the fine strainer, replaced the coarse one over it, and then took

a tin pint measure, filled it with boiling water, and poured half

into the coffee-pot; the other half she set on the stove to keep at

boiling-point, while the first dripped through; then she put half a

pint of milk to boil, and, seeing the butter was melted, she drew back

the frying-pan that it might not burn till the omelette was ready.

Marta had not yet reached the point of snow with the whites of eggs,

and Molly took them from her to finish herself.

“Now, Marta, put that little fringed napkin on the dish, and with a

fork take up those biscuits.”

She watched her while she performed her task, dropping two or three

on the floor, of course, but that did not ruffle Molly’s good temper,

for she knew the girl could not have been accustomed to doing things

daintily,—that if she followed her instinct, it would no doubt be to

tumble them all out pell-mell together.

“Now take those to the table, set them on the mat I showed you, and

come back at once.”

The eggs were now ready, and as the omelette was to be the very last

thing cooked, she poured the rest of the water on the coffee, told

Marta to get the waiter ready, and then pour the boiling milk into the

pitcher and set it on it.

“Now, Marta, take the chicken salad into the dining-room, and at the

same time take the melon from the ice-box and bring it here as you come

back.”

The coffee had now all dripped through; she took a cup and poured it

full of coffee, and then poured it back to run through again,—then she

directed Marta to cut the melon in half, remove the seeds, and lay the

halves in a dish with a piece of ice in each half. Knowing Marta would

not understand cracking ice, Molly had put some ready, when she had

gone for the bowl and egg for mayonnaise.

“Now, Marta, I will run up stairs and get ready for lunch; while I am

gone take the melon into the dining-room and put it on the table at the

side opposite the biscuit. Remember, at _luncheon_ everything may go on

the table at once. The butter is ready on a dish in the ice-box; place

that, and by that time I will be down.”

Molly had worn a homespun walking-dress, and it had been the custom

of herself and friend, Mrs. Welles, to try and emulate the neatness

of the teacher at the cooking-school they had attended, who dressed

handsomely, wore no apron, and left her class spotless. They had

attained to great neatness, but Molly found herself more comfortable in

a large apron. She did not yet remove it, but put on a clean collar,

arranged a stray curl, and washed her face and hands, then ran down

to finish her omelette. She put the frying-pan back to a hot place,

stirred the yolks of eggs with a good pinch of salt and a little

pepper, and mixed them gently with the whites, and poured both into

the pan, which she turned about that the mixture might run into every

part; and when it was “set” underneath, she lifted one side, tilted

the pan and allowed the uncooked custard to run into its place; this

she kept on doing, always turning the cooked part toward the centre,

until in three minutes it was a light custard-like mass; then, with a

cake-turner, she folded one side over and slipped the doubled omelette

on to a hot dish, where it lay, a delicate golden-brown mound.

“Now, Marta, take in the coffee and milk.”

She heard Harry coming down stairs, and looking at the clock saw it was

three minutes past one.

“Going up to dress did that,” she thought, “but it is not so bad, yet I

am sorry Marta has the bad example.”

“Odors of Araby the blest!” quoted Harry, as Molly, divested of her

apron, the omelette in hand, followed him into the dining-room. “I

smell coffee!—real aromatic coffee!”

He stood and surveyed the pretty lunch table, looked at the

Delmonico-like salad, the Frenchy omelette, and then at Molly.

“Humph, is this all cooking-school, or is it part caterer,—if there is

such a being in Greenfield?”

“It is part cooking-school, and a tiny bit Molly,” said the young wife.

“No, indeed, I have no acquaintance with caterers.”

“This omelette should not palpitate its excellence away; shall I help

you, dear?”

“No; I devote myself to salad”—then to Marta, who was waiting,

uncertain what to do:

“Marta, go into the kitchen and wash up, in quite hot water, the soiled

pans and dishes.”

“Molly, this omelette is perfect; you have put forth your strength,

indeed; but, my dear little girl, I am not going to have you spend all

your time in the kitchen.”

“I don’t mean to, but I can give a couple of hours each day, and it

will do me good.”

“But this luncheon is quite elaborate. Oh, I’ve heard of chicken salad

and its intricacy, before now.”

Molly smiled; she had known it too. “I will take some of it if you

please.”

“Ah, Molly, I believe it’s worth while to give up boarding and to live

on cold meat, to have such coffee as this, and such biscuit!”

“I think it is, although I don’t intend to live on cold meat; I don’t

like it.”

“But I suppose we must do a good deal of that, or eat quantities of

hash, for we can’t afford to throw our cold meat away.”

“Ah, Harry, what would be the good of my devotion to cooking-schools if

I couldn’t do better than that?”

“If you learned to make chicken salad there, I swear by them forever.”

“You’ll forswear your ridicule, I hope.”

“I will, indeed, if only for the sake of this salad; there’s a tang, a

something about it, that outdoes my previous conception of the dish.

Now, Molly, eliminate yourself from the cooking-schools, and tell me

which was the ‘tiny bit of Molly.’”

“Ah, Molly was the ‘something’ in the salad—and also what made it a

very easy instead of a difficult dish to prepare. You have eaten,

before, salad made of boiled or roast chicken. I made this of canned

chicken, which saves all trouble of preparing, and is besides of far

better flavor, for the jelly and all the goodness is sealed up in the

can, instead of escaping into the water. I don’t like boughten canned

things, usually, but the chicken is a success.”

“The salad was, at any rate. Now I’m going to smoke; shall we survey

our domain?”

“Yes, I’ll be out in one minute, when I have shown Marta how to clear

away.”

Harry left the room and Marta answered the bell.

“Now, Marta, bring your tray, set it on that table and put these things

on it.”

Molly, as she spoke, smoothed over the salt-cellars with a spoon, then

put them away; also the napkins, while Marta removed the dishes, etc.

“Now, Marta, never take off the cloth to shake it, but do as you see me

do now.”

Molly had taken a folded napkin, and brushed the crumbs lightly into

the crumb-pan.

“At dinner do this after the meat is removed. Now take the cloth by

this centre fold, lift it from the table, lay it back double, and

then fold again in the old creases, till it is just as it left the

laundress. At dinner you shall do it yourself under my direction.”

Molly then went out to join Harry in the little garden. She had her

trunks to unpack, and contents to arrange in the bureau drawers, but

she meant to devote half an hour to her husband, on this first day of

their home life.

“Well, Molly, my dear, I begin to think I like housekeeping.”

“I knew you would, Harry, but remember we have only just begun, and

hitches will come sometimes, but even at the worst that need be, with

moderate care, I think you would not go back to our one room again, and

the routine meals.”

“No; I begin to feel some of the aspirations of proprietorship, and to

wish this little place were mine.”

“I am so glad, Harry, because if you go on thinking so, in spring we

can get a similar place of our own.”

When they had walked and talked till Harry said he was going in to

write letters, Molly returned to the house, and found Marta in grand

confusion washing glasses, silver, and greasy dishes all together.

“Oh, Marta! I must show you a better way than that. Take those things

out of the dish-pan. Get clean hot water and a little soap, so.

Now take glasses first; roll them round and put them in this empty

dish-pan. Now the silver. Put the greasy dishes in, and leave them

while you pour nearly boiling water over the silver and glass. Now

bring the waiter and wipe each article as it comes out of that hot

water. You see it takes only a minute; being hot they hardly dampen the

cloth.

“Now set those dry things on a tray, and wash the greasy dishes, using

more soap if the water does not lather; slip each dish into this hot

water, and wipe them out of it directly; don’t drain them, and then

wipe them half cold.”

When she had thus straightened Marta out, and set her to make up the

fire and sweep the kitchen, she went up to her unpacking and other

arrangements.

CHAPTER III.

MOLLY’S FIRST BILL OF FARE.

_Lamb and Mint Sauce._

_Browned Potatoes._ _Boiled Cabbage._

_Italian Macaroni._ _Tomato Salad._

_Peaches and Cream._

MRS. WINFIELD had given Molly some useful information about her

neighbors, and one item was that she could get cream from one, and

salad and fresh vegetables from another. She had resolved to have a

very simple dinner for to-day, although she knew it would be more

expensive than a better-seeming one, where she could make good cooking

count for half the money.

She had ordered, on her way to the house, a fore-quarter of lamb

weighing eight pounds, and at four o’clock she went down to see to

the fire. Before going up-stairs she had put on coals and closed all

dampers; now she showed Marta how to rake it, and how to arrange

the dampers so that the fire would draw, and the oven get hot; then

she left the kitchen, telling Marta, as she had everything tidy

down-stairs, she could go to her room and put some of her belongings in

place.

Molly was now feeling glad of rest, for her unpacking and unwonted

standing had tired her, and, thinking she might indulge herself, she

took a book and lay down on the sofa. Half an hour she lay thus,

enjoying the repose and her book far more than when she had had

unlimited opportunity for both.

“Ha, ha! what magic is this? Our new housekeeper finds time on ‘moving

day’ to lie down and improve her mind,” cried Harry, as he came into

the room and sat down by her side.

“I could have found plenty to do, although coming into a

ready-furnished house, left in such perfect order as this was, really

leaves one little, the first day, but to shake down into place and plan

what one can do to-morrow. I have unpacked, put our own knick-knacks

about up-stairs, and then I felt tired enough to lie down, and thought

it wise to do so before I was over-tired.”

“Of course it was. I have been looking about me out-of-doors, ordered a

paper to be sent, and priced a brood of chickens.”

“Oh, no, no, not yet, Harry! we’ll see about chickens when we are

settled, unless, indeed, you want them badly.”

“I? No, indeed! I thought of you.”

“Then I would rather wait. I see some cabbages down at the end of the

garden. I have longed to taste nice cabbage for months.”

“You vulgar little person!”

“You won’t say so when you eat it.”

“No, but I shan’t eat it, my dear. I’ve too much respect for my

digestion.”

“What a pity!”

Notwithstanding Harry’s determination, Molly went for a cabbage, and

told Marta to put it in water. Then Molly took the fore-quarter of

lamb, and with a sharp knife she made a deep incision, just where the

neck ends and the shoulder begins, carrying the knife round nearly in

a circle, always cutting as deeply as possible until the shoulder was

free from the quarter. She had now before her the breast and rack,

or ribs, the scrag, and the shoulder,—a nice, neat joint. All she

had allowed the butcher to do to the quarter was to joint the chops

and crack the breast across in the usual way, _but not to touch the

shoulder_.

Molly had seen this process of removing the shoulder so often in Europe

(where it is a very choice joint), that she had felt sure she could

manage it. She knew that the great thing was to have the shoulder as

_thick_ as possible, therefore the knife must cut to the rib bones,

and yet that the circle traced by the knife should go only within three

inches of the edge on the rib side or back, and follow the line of the

breast on the front, so that there remained five or six rib chops with

the fat upon them, and several from under the shoulder up to the scrag,

which would be excellent “French chops,” ready trimmed,—she would only

have to scrape the bone.

[Illustration]

To-day, however, she only separated the breast and cut off three rib

chops, and trimmed them ready for breakfast, then put them away with

the meat, leaving the shoulder out for dinner. It weighed about three

and a half pounds, and would take, being lamb, which must be so well

done, an hour and a quarter to cook. She set Marta to peel half a dozen

potatoes of medium size, while she set the shoulder on a wire stand in

a dripping-pan, then shook a _little_ flour over it and rubbed a little

salt on the skin. Molly had profited too well by her cooking-school

lessons to think of putting salt on the flesh of meat before cooking,

when it would draw out the gravy. When the potatoes were peeled and

washed, she put them in the dripping-pan under the meat, and for fear

enough fat should not drop from the joint to prevent the potatoes from

becoming hard and dry before they browned, she laid the scraps of

fat she had cut from the breakfast chops upon them. It was both young

and fat lamb,—had it not been, Molly would not have risked the strong

taste of lamb that is nearly mutton, on potatoes, nor the hard, whitish

dryness of those cooked under lean meat.

The potatoes were well sprinkled with salt and the pan set in the oven.

Molly had only intended having the lamb, and cut-up peaches and cream

for dessert, yet, seeing she had time, for it was just a quarter to

five now, and only the cloth for Marta to lay, and the cabbage to cook,

she thought she would give Harry some of his beloved macaroni as a

course. She therefore broke a few pipes of macaroni into pieces about

six inches long, taking a dozen of them, and set them on to boil in

water and a little salt till tender. While this was in process, she had

sent Marta for some tomatoes from the vine, and when they came, showed

her how to scald them, and herself squeezed the pulp from two large

ones through a strainer, and set it in a small thick saucepan with a

table-spoonful of butter, a salt-spoonful of salt, and a little pepper,

and put it on the stove where it would slowly cook.

Marta had scalded half a dozen tomatoes and dropped them, as she

skinned them, on some cracked ice. Molly took them when they were cold

and firm, and with a sharp knife cut them into slices and set them in

the ice-box.

“Now, Marta, come with me to set the dinner-table. I will show you,

to-night, and expect you to remember afterwards. You first remove the

cover and fold it, but leave on this white baize.”

Molly watched to see if the girl had remembered her instructions at

lunch, but found she had not retained one idea.

“No, Marta, the middle fold, lengthwise, and exactly in the centre; now

the flowers, now a plate to each person, the napkin to the left with a

piece of bread in it, a large and a small knife, two forks and a spoon

to each person; above these the glasses and a butter-plate.[1] Now put

this carving-napkin in front of Mr. Bishop, lay the large table-mat

there, and when you bring in the meat set the dish upon it. Now count

the dishes and set a mat for each, one salt-cellar and pepper-caster at

each right-hand corner, two table-spoons at the same place. Now that is

all, and you can come and peel peaches.”

Molly heard the meat in the oven sputtering and hissing, and found it

browning nicely. She basted it, turning the potatoes over, and closed

the oven. It was twenty minutes past five.

“Marta, I want you to pay attention to everything I do, because the

next time we have this dinner I shall expect you to cook it alone, and

when you have learnt to roast one piece of meat properly, you will be

able to roast any other. Remember the rules,—your oven must be quite

hot when the meat goes in; if, after a while, you find danger of its

burning, cool it, but meat can’t get brown too quickly to retain the

juices. You must put no water in the pan, for that steams it. If your

meat is so very lean that it will be dry, it is of such poor quality

that you should not try to roast it (and that sort of meat you will

not have to cook for me), or it is a part unsuitable for roasting, and

should be cooked some other way. Baste often, and when meat is half

done,—that is, brown and crisp on top,—turn it over, as I shall do

that lamb in a few minutes. Above all things, meat must be _brown_ if

roasted.”

Marta had peeled the eight peaches Molly had given her, and the latter

now told her to three parts fill a gallon saucepan with water from the

kettle, which she had taken care to see full when she set the oven to

heat, and which was now boiling.

“Put it in the hottest spot, Marta; we want it to boil quickly. Now

that cabbage: it is only a small head, so you can cut it in four, and

remove the outer leaves,—also cut away the core; wash it thoroughly in

two waters; now hold the colander in your left hand, and as you wash

the cabbage through the second water lay it in it; then pour the water

out of the pan and set the colander in it, so that all water may run

off the cabbage; the thing we want is to check the boiling water as

little as possible, which the cabbage, filled with cold water, would

do. Now I am going to turn the meat over, so that the under side will

brown, while you pour the water off that macaroni; it is just tender

but not breaking.”

The lamb was brown and crisp on the top when Molly turned the under

side up, so that it might become equally so. Marta brought the macaroni

back to the stove, and Molly poured over it the tomato juice she had

put to reduce. There was enough to moisten the macaroni and yet leave a

little in the saucepan. She put it at the back of the stove, where it

would keep about boiling-point, but not burn.

“Now the cabbage, Marta. You see this water is boiling _very fast_;

put it in gently, so that if there is too much in the saucepan you may

dip some out before it overflows,—no, it all goes in, and the water

covers it well; now put in one table-spoonful of salt and one _scant_

salt-spoonful of baking soda. Remember, Marta, cabbage must never be

allowed to remain long in hot water before it boils up; it must boil

_very fast_; for that reason it must always be in the hottest part of

the stove, and there must be _abundance_ of water and the saucepan

always large. As soon as it comes back to the boiling-point, take

off the cover, and leave it off all the while, and push the cabbage

down under the water from time to time. The whole secret of boiling

cabbage _without filling the house with a bad odor_ and sending to

table a vulgar, yellow, wilted vegetable, full of dyspepsia, is to

remember—_rapid boiling, plenty of water, plenty of room, and the cover

off_.”

She took off the stove-lid as she spoke, and brightened the top of the

fire, and in another minute the cabbage was “galloping.”

“Twenty-five minutes from now it will be done. Now, Marta, I want you

to run to that white house across the lot, and ask for half a pint of

cream.”

The peaches were cut up, and Molly put them in a bowl and set it _on_

the ice. When she came back she grated a small piece of cheese, about

as big as her thumb, and shook it into the macaroni, shaking the

saucepan about, so that it would mix without breaking the pipes, and

set it back to keep hot.

There was nothing to be done now till the cabbage was cooked.

Suddenly Molly remembered something she had forgotten, and stopped

short, very much vexed.

“I have no cake to eat with the peaches, and Harry is so fond of cake!

I’ve just time to make a ‘fifteen minutes’ cake,’ and I will. No, _I

wont_! it will make getting dinner on time a scramble; I shall go in

flushed and heated, and Harry will think I am killing myself, and Marta

will think she may scramble ever after. We will do without cake.”

Marta returned with the cream, which was put in the ice-box, and she

was then set at chopping the leaves of some mint for mint sauce. Molly

had found, on walking around Greenfield the first day they visited the

house, a quantity of mint growing near, and had pulled a few roots and

replanted them in the garden. When it was chopped quite fine, she took

one table-spoonful, an equal quantity of sugar, and as the vinegar was

very strong, she used one table-spoonful of it and one of water, poured

them over the mint and stirred it till the sugar was dissolved.

Marta, meantime, had put the plates and dishes to warm, and Molly sent

the mint sauce to the table.

“Marta, you will need, to dress the cabbage, a little milk, a

table-spoonful of butter, and a large tea-spoonful of flour. Make the

flour and butter to a paste with the end of a knife. When I take up the

meat, you pour the cabbage, which I see will be done in a few minutes,

into the colander; the leaves are like marrow now, but the stalk is

a little hard; when it is in the colander, press it with a plate to

get every drop of water out, and put it back into the pot, with butter

and flour, a scant salt-spoonful of salt, a little white pepper, and

half a _tea-cupful_ of milk. You must remember, too, that when I am

not here to help you dish the dinner, you must put your meat in the

oven five minutes sooner; it can be taken up before the vegetables,

but on no account must you take up vegetables first, and let _them_

wait. Never put them on too soon. Now put the warm dishes on the table

in the order in which they will be needed; the meat-platter first, the

vegetable-dishes next. The macaroni you will bring in after I ring

for you to take out the meat,—I mean, you will take away the meat and

vegetables, then bring in the macaroni and fresh plates, and after

that, the tomatoes, as a salad; and, last of all, the fruit and tea.

Now go and put the cracked ice on the table, the pitcher of water, and

the butter with a piece of ice on it, and come quickly back.”

Molly looked again at the macaroni, found a little liquid still at the

bottom of the saucepan, and set it nearer the fire to cook away, and

now left the cover off.

“Marta, the cabbage is done; pour off the water.”

At the same time Molly took the meat out of the oven, and set it in

the pan on the stove; she removed the crisp brown shoulder to the

platter, put the potatoes round it, and then poured the fat from the

corner of the dripping-pan into a jar very gently and carefully, to

prevent the small quantity of brown sediment there was from leaving it

too, for that was the gravy; when she could get no more fat from one

corner, without letting the gravy go too, she changed to another, till

it was free from it; she set the pan on the stove and poured in a cup

of water and a pinch of salt; with a spoon she rubbed the pan in every

direction, to get off the clinging glaze or dried gravy, and then she

let the water boil fast while she looked after Marta and the cabbage

which she was stirring.

“Take a knife, Marta, and cut the cabbage across several times, and

then, when the milk forms a creamy dressing and it all bubbles

together, turn it out into the dish.”

The gravy had in two minutes boiled down enough,—there was very little

from such a small joint; it was poured through a strainer and, with the

meat, put to keep warm while Molly made tea.

“Turn the cabbage out now, Marta; put the cover on the dish and take it

to the dining-room; then take the meat and bring in the macaroni when I

ask you for it, but you can put it in the dish ready, and keep it hot.

When all is ready, put on a white apron, which I hung for you behind

the door, and tell Mr. Bishop, whom I see in the garden, that dinner is

ready.”

Molly had dressed herself in the afternoon and only needed to run

up-stairs to remove traces of her work. As the clock struck six she

heard Marta carrying in dinner, and got down herself in time to tell

Harry it was served.

“What joint may this be, my dear?” Harry asked when seated.

“Ah! that is the English delicacy, a ‘shoulder of lamb.’ Don’t you

remember Sam Weller’s ‘shoulder of mutton and trimmings’ at the

‘Swarry?’ There is a particular way to carve it, which my mother used

to be very particular about. I can only describe it by saying, you cut

it like a leg, and there is the same reason for beginning at the right

side,—on one side you can cut only a shallow gash and a meagre slice,

on the other a deep one,—therefore, till you are familiar with the

joint, prod for the bone with your fork and make one deep cut to the

centre on the side where the meat is thickest.”

Harry did “prod,” and then, planting his fork, stood the joint on its

side and made one cut, and the joint yawned as if a wedge had been cut

out.

“There is a mythical anecdote about a lady starving herself to death on

shoulder of mutton.”

“How so?”

“Why, she chose that joint every day and merely made that cut, so that

when it left the table it looked as if a meal had been eaten from it,

and no one commented on her abstinence from food. Thank you, I will

take the dish gravy.”

“I approve of shoulder of lamb decidedly,” said Harry, during dinner.

“I am glad, for, though our English cousins look on it as far more

choice than the leg, and pay more for it, it is sold here at a much

lower price.”

“But what vegetable may this be?” he asked, looking curiously at the

pale green, appetizing cabbage. “Cauliflower, I suppose, that has met

with disasters?”

“No, it is cabbage, and I want you to eat and see if it is not good.”

“You don’t mean to tell me cabbage has been cooked in this house

to-day?”

“You see it.”

“And we are not choked! Molly, I surrender; you are a magician!”

In short, Molly’s dinner was a success, and Harry no longer looked on

cabbage as unfit for a “cultured palate.”

While Harry smoked his pipe on the piazza, after dinner, Molly went

over her accounts. Her grocer’s bill, for what she supposed would be a

month’s stores, was as follows:—

2 pounds loaf sugar, $0.20

10 pounds granulated sugar, .80

25 pounds of the best flour, 1.00

5 gallons kerosene, 1.00

2 pecks of potatoes, .40

1 bottle (small) of olives, .30

4 pounds corn meal, .10

5 pounds lard, .70

White pepper, .10

Salt, .15

1 gallon vinegar, .30

4 pounds Java coffee, 1.20

1 pound tea, .75

Common soap, .25

Toilet-soap, .10

Starch, .08

Bluing, .15

Mustard, .20

Olive oil (large bottle), .95

Cracker meal, .15

1 pound cheese, .18

1 bottle Worcestershire sauce, .30

Cooking-wine (1 bottle), .50

———

Total, $9.86

There were several things, such as soap, starch, flour, and sugar,

Molly would have liked to buy in large quantities, but she wanted first

to see her expenditure; she reckoned that what she had ordered of each

article would last a month, and a few things, such as vinegar, bluing,

sauce, wine, etc., much longer. “But I must wait till the end of the

week before I can really know. The first week or month is always more

expensive in housekeeping. I must add, too, to my expenditure, to-day,

ten cents for cream, which will make it $3, but I have meat in the

house, and if I allow one-fourth of the grocery bill for this week I

have left $4.50.”

Molly was not without her anxieties that she might be wrong on her

estimates, often as she had gone over them on paper. Suddenly she

looked up. “I forgot the yeast, and I want to make bread!”

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Butter is no longer thought indispensable to the dinner-table, and

butter-plates are consequently a matter of taste.

CHAPTER IV.

BREAD-MAKING—BREAKFAST—BAKED POTATOES—CORN MUFFINS—BREADED CHOPS—HOW TO

FRY.

WHEN Molly made the humiliating discovery that she had forgotten the

yeast, Harry, who was smoking and reading, looked up.

“What shall I do, that baker’s bread is so sour?”

“I’ll tell you, let’s sally forth and get it! It’s a lovely night!”

“Would you?” exclaimed Molly, brightly.

“Why not? You don’t suppose you are going to monopolize all the merits

and reap all the glory of this housekeeping, do you? Why, I should not

be able to have one of the little jokes other married men seem to enjoy

at their wife’s expense.”

“I hate such jokes,” said Molly; “they are so cheap, and generally

unjust.”

“Then I promise I won’t make them. I’ll never boast of the servant

girls I escort out from New York, nor of the baskets I carry, nor the”—

“You’ll have no chance if you respect the truth,” said Molly, laughing.

“Now if we are going, I’ll put on my things.”

The little town of Greenfield was just venturing on electric lights,

and, with the band of its skating-rink making music, had quite a

dissipated appearance, as the young couple strolled around in search of

a grocer, and Molly, at the same time, found out a few other facts she

was anxious to know, and had not yet had time to discover.

As they walked home, Harry said, hesitating, “My dear, I don’t want

to interfere with your housekeeping, and I feel my own insignificance

in approaching such a subject, but I would diffidently suggest that

our family is at present very small, and neither you nor I like stale

bread. Do you think Marta can be induced to consume all the ‘left over’

loaves?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t you think we had better try another baker who doesn’t make

sour bread, or”—this was said very slowly, as if it would be a sad

necessity—“I might bring it out from New York.”

Molly laughed merrily.

“I think I see you! Surely then you could joke about your martyrdom.

No, my dear boy, you’re going to have no such toothsome morsel as that

for a joke, but I see you are afraid of stale bread.”

“The truth is, I have a lively recollection of living in the country

and eating bread a week old, and older still sometimes, when the

general appetite failed, and I don’t believe I’m up to that sort of

thing now.”

“I don’t think you are, so you will not be tested. Now-a-days one

doesn’t fear baking as one used to do. It is no more trouble to make

bread three times a week than to boil potatoes.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. I’m learning every hour my own benighted

ignorance.”

When they reached home Molly went into the kitchen and put one quarter

of the yeast cake in a pint of warm water, which she made Marta, who

was to make the next bread, feel was just about as warm as milk from

the cow, then she put a heaped quart of flour in the mixing-bowl and

set it in the oven with the door open, telling Marta to stir it in a

few minutes that it might get evenly warm through.

“I am doing this, Marta, because I do not know this flour. It may be

very new or damp; by drying it I shall be on the safe side. In cold

weather you must warm it always, so that the water, yeast, and flour

are all about the same temperature.”

When the yeast was quite dissolved by stirring, she put into the

water one tea-spoonful of salt and two of sugar, made a hole in the

flour and poured the liquid in, and the whole made a soft dough which

slightly stuck to her hands.

“If it is necessary just shake in a little flour from the dredger;

never throw it in by the handful, as the less flour you work with the

better.” As Molly spoke she steadied the bowl with one hand and with

the other worked the dough with her fist from the side to the middle,

so that in five minutes what had been the under part was all brought

over to the top, and the whole was smooth and very elastic to the touch.

Marta watched with interest and, as Molly could see, surprise.

“My mother always made her bread thin at night, and put in more flour

in the morning.”

“Yes, but your mother and mine had no certainty that the yeast was

good, and it was better to ‘prove it’ by using part of the flour for a

sponge than to waste the whole, but now we use compressed yeast, which

we are _sure_ is good if fresh.”

Marta did not look convinced. She doubtless fancied it was some

new-fangled notion of Molly’s.

The bread was left, covered with a clean cloth, on the table free from

draught, for it was a mild night and she knew it would be risen well in

the morning without going into a warm spot.

The next morning, as it was Marta’s first, Molly was up and down-stairs

a few minutes after her, and found she had taken away the ashes and

was struggling with the fire; with Molly’s help, however, it was soon

burning in the stove.

“Now brush off the stove quickly before it gets hot, and do so every

morning, and on Saturday it needs thorough cleaning.” Molly looked at

the bread as she spoke.

“Fill the kettle now, after you pour out the water left in it, set it

in the hole of the stove, and then look at the bread before I touch it

that you may see how it should be. It is quite light, as you see, more

than double the size it was last night; now while you go and dust the

dining-room, brushing up any crumbs there may be first, I will work

the bread over, then you can come here and sweep your kitchen and the

piazzas. Molly worked the bread over faithfully for five minutes,—had

the quantity been larger, of course the time would have been in

proportion,—and then she set it in a warm spot back of the range, and

went herself into the parlor to arrange it, knowing Marta would not be

so quick this first morning as she hoped she might become later. At

seven o’clock the work was done, and Molly told Marta she must do every

morning exactly as this morning.

“Now we will begin to get breakfast, but I shall let you do it, because

you will see that you have ample time without my help, and it must

always be on the table at eight o’clock. Bring the chops I prepared

yesterday, two eggs, and three potatoes.”

Molly looked at the fire, found it bright and the oven hot; she put a

shovelful more of coals each side of the fire, and then showed Marta

how to brush the potatoes with a little new brush she had brought for

the purpose.

“See the difference, Marta? Wash them ever so carefully, you can’t make

the skins so clean that the minute you put the brush to them they do

not look several shades lighter.”

They were put into the oven.

“Now, Marta, bring that packet of cracker meal I pointed out yesterday,

and pour at least half on a dish; now a saucer and the pepper and salt.

Break one egg, and put the yolk into the saucer, the white into a cup;

if there were more chops we would use both white and yolk,—as there are

so few, for economy’s sake we will use only the yolk; put to it two

teaspoonfuls of cold water and beat it with a fork. Now season those

chops with salt and pepper, remembering never to do so before cooking

if they are to be broiled or cooked without breading.”

Marta was rather clumsy, but still Molly repressed her own itching

fingers, knowing the girl would do better in future if let alone now.

“Now lay a chop in the egg,—take care it moistens every part,—lift

it out with the left hand, let it drain an instant and lay it on the

cracker meal; now with your dry _right_ hand send the meal all over it

till every bit of the meat is covered with the white dust, then lay it

aside. Now do the others in the same way.”

Molly looked at the clock; it was nearly half past seven.

“Hurry, Marta, get the can of lard, and, as that spider is not deep,

I am going to fry in this agate saucepan; it is just about broad

enough for a chop. Put in it at least a pound of lard, set it where

it will get hot, yet not boil till you are ready. Now you can grease

the muffin-pans, leaving a teaspoonful of lard in one, and then make

the muffins. We need only a dozen, so you can take half a cup of corn

meal, half a cup of flour, and a teaspoon of baking-powder and half one

of salt. Mix them quickly. Now a scant table-spoonful of sugar, and

milk to make a thick batter, break in an egg, and beat it all steadily

three minutes by the clock,—no, beat just as if you were beating eggs,

quickly, till it froths. Now pour the lard from the muffin-pan in it,

stir well, and fill the pans nearly full; set them in the oven,—they

will bake in fifteen minutes. Go now and set the table, and do it

quickly.”

On second thought Molly went with her and helped, because she could

not easily find things. She found she had remembered fairly well the

directions about the cloth.

“Put the cups and saucers at my left, and that mat for the meat before

Mr. Bishop; the potatoes, on a folded napkin, you will place on one

side, the muffins exactly opposite them on the other, butter within

easy reach of both. Put this tile for the coffee at my right hand, the

sugar and the milk-pitcher in front, those geraniums in the centre,

a knife and fork and small plate to each; and now come out into the

kitchen, set the plates to warm, and a platter. I’ll put the lard now

on the hottest part of the stove, and a cover over it, so that the

smell of hot grease may be as little as possible, and while it gets

hot you can grind the coffee. You remember how to make it? Put a pint

of milk on to boil, and set the other pint away. Now try the fat, and

remember that what I am now going to teach you with these chops applies

_to all kinds_ of frying. The way you crumbed those chops is the way

you must crumb cutlets, fish, oysters, or croquettes. They are better

crumbed a little while before they are fried, as they have time to dry.”

Molly had cut, as she spoke, some little cubes of bread.

“Come and watch, Marta. This fat is very hot, but I doubt if it is hot

enough, although it begins to smoke.”

She dropped in one bit of bread, it sizzled, but after waiting a few

seconds remained white.

“It is not hot enough or that bread would have colored. Get the

colander, set it on the stove with this sheet of grocer’s paper in it.

When you take any fried article out of the fat, lay it first on the

paper, then on a hot dish. Now let us try the fat again.”

Another bit of bread was dropped into the fat, and this time it colored

in a few seconds.

“Remember, if I had six chops instead of three I should let the fat

get hotter yet, because they would cool it so much. Now drop each chop

gently in,—that’s the way. If they were very thick, as soon as they

were brown I would draw back the fat, and leave them longer; as it

is, two minutes will brown them beautifully, and they will be cooked

through.”

“Two minutes!” murmured Marta, in expostulating tones. She could hardly

be expected to credit that.

“Yes; you forget this fat is far hotter than any oven would be, and

they are completely immersed in it. You can take up the potatoes if

they are done, wipe them and lay them on the plate, and I will take up

the muffins. The two minutes are up; look at the chops: you see they

are most beautifully brown all over alike!”

Marta exclaimed, “_Schön!_” and stolidly attentive as she had been to

all else, the golden chops evidently appealed to some hidden well of

enthusiasm. They were taken up, laid first on the paper, then on the

dish, and put to keep hot while the breakfast was taken to the table.

When the chops were going in, Molly said, “When we are settled, I shall

want you always to put a little parsley on the dish with fried things.”

The muffins were light and crisp, the potatoes looked far more tempting

in their pale-yellow, well-brushed skins than they usually do, and

altogether the breakfast was as dainty a meal as heart could sigh for.

CHAPTER V.

HOW TO MANAGE THE FAT THAT HAS BEEN USED FOR FRYING—CUP CAKE.

WHEN breakfast was on the table, Molly directed Marta to go up-stairs

with pail and cloth and to bring down the soiled water, fill the ewer

with fresh, etc. As Harry rose to put on his coat, Molly ran up-stairs

and put on her hat and gloves. “I am going to the depot with you,

Harry,” she said, when she reappeared ready for walking, “and I shall

do my marketing as I return.”

“That is a good idea, Molly; the walk will be good for you.”

Before leaving the house, Molly passed through the kitchen, and told

Marta, after she had finished her breakfast, to wash the breakfast

things, but to leave the fat (that she had herself removed from the

stove and covered, so that the fumes might not fill the house, before

she went in to breakfast) till she returned. “After you have washed up,

if I am not here, fill the lamps and clean the chimneys.”

This Marta was doing when she got back, and while she finished, Molly

took off her outdoor clothes and donned her apron. “Now, Marta, I will

show you about this fat, and I want you to remember to do just as you

see me do, every time you use it. This is a piece of cheese-cloth; the

fat is still quite hot (Molly had left it on the iron shelf over the

range), but not scalding; I put the cloth over this empty lard-pail,

and without shaking the fat, pour it through the cloth. You see all

this fine black sediment that remains on the cloth and in the saucepan?

That, if it were not strained out, would discolor whatever you fried

in it. When it is strained each time, you can use it a dozen times; so

you see it is not extravagant to fry in deep fat. Now you have a very

greasy cloth and saucepan, but pour a quart of _boiling_ water and a

piece of washing-soda as big as a walnut on them, stir them, and you

see you have no more _grease_, only some nice _soapy_ water and a clean

saucepan!”

Marta’s interest had been all alive since she had seen the chops, and

she explained how often she had seen cooks in Germany bread cutlets,

and they came out of the pan only breaded here and there. Never had she

seen them all over alike, except at a restaurant where she had been

dish-washer, and where there was a man cook.

“The crumbs come off for one of two reasons,—either they were too large

(when I use bread instead of cracker I sift them), or the fat had not

been hot enough; two or three large crumbs would spoil the whole, for

they would fall off, bring others with them, and leave bare pale spots.”

As she made the explanation she had worked over the bread, which had

risen to twice its first bulk, and put it into a tin pan, and set it to

rise again. “That will only make one nice loaf, but it is as much as we

shall eat while fresh. Now, while my hands are in flour, I will make a

plain cake, and while it is baking, Marta, you and I will go up-stairs

to the bedrooms. But first look well at the bread in the pan; you see

it is barely half full; I worked it thoroughly, so that it has again

to rise; when it is twice the size it now is it will be ready for the

oven.”

She got for her cake two eggs, half a cup of butter, one of sugar, and

a cup and a half of flour, a lemon, a nutmeg, and a tea-spoonful of

baking-powder. Remembering she would need them, she had brought half a

dozen of lemons and an ounce of nutmegs in with her. She set Marta to

cream the butter and sugar, while she separated the yolks of the eggs

and beat the whites till they were quite firm.

“This is only a plain ‘one, two, three, four’ cake, Marta, but it will

be made nicer by the flavoring. When you know how to make this cake,

always remember to vary the flavor, and the cake will seem much better

than ordinary cup cake; sometimes you can add, the last thing, a cup

of candied lemon and orange peel, cut fine,—I will show you how to

candy them when we have collected enough,—or a cup of currants; either

of these must be made warm, flour shaken through them, and the cake

stirred only just enough, after they are in, to mix them, or they will

all go to the bottom. This cake we will flavor with lemon and nutmeg.

Mix the two yolks now with the butter and sugar, grate half the nutmeg,

beginning at the blossom end or there will be a hole all through it;

when you see that, always turn the nutmeg, begin at the other end, and

there will be no hole; then grate the peel of the lemon to them, add a

quarter tea-spoonful of salt, and mix all together; now sift in part of

the flour with the baking-powder, then part of this cup of milk, now

more flour, and the rest of the milk; the batter is rather stiff as

yet, but the whites of the eggs will thin it enough,—they are the last

to go in.”

Molly buttered a cake-pan, and the mixture, a thickish batter, was

poured in, and then powdered sugar was sifted over and the cake put in

the oven.

“The oven is nice and hot. I like to cover a cake the first half hour,

so I will put this pie-pan over the top; another time I will have a

piece of card-board ready and keep it for the purpose. Remember, if you

want to make this cake when we are short of butter, you can use half

lard. Now look at the bread; it will be ready in about twenty minutes,

and the oven will be just nice for it. Meanwhile we will go upstairs.”

CHAPTER VI.

_Oysters on the Half Shell._

_Porterhouse Steak._ _Ragout of Lamb._

_Stuffed Potatoes._ _Lima Beans._

_Cheese Canapées._

_Lemon Pie._

WHAT “SIMMERING” MEANS.

MOLLY congratulated herself on her unusual good fortune in securing

such a girl as Marta, when she saw, in initiating her into the bedroom

work, how well she did it. But she was not to be without her trials,

even with this treasure, any more than every other housekeeper. When

she knew, by the time, that the bread was ready, being deep in the

draping of some chintz she had had in their city room, she told Marta

to run down and put it in the oven, and to take the cover off the cake,

but on no account to _move_ or _shake_ it, as the bread would go in on

the other side of it.

Marta ran down, if the term can be applied to the lumbering movement

with which she hurled herself down-stairs. Molly heard her carrying out

her order, and then she heard a sound that elicited an exclamation of

annoyance. It was the sound of the oven door closing with a tremendous

bang.

“My poor cake! how vexatious!” For a moment vexation impelled her to

scold Marta, but if Molly was one thing more than another, she was

reasonable. Her blame was for herself more than for the girl. “How

could she know? I must give her a general caution; I suppose the cake

is gone utterly.”

It was. She met Marta returning to her up-stairs work smiling serenely.

“Marta, I want you to come and look at the result of banging the oven

door in that way when cake is in the oven,—and you must remember, too,

never to set a pot heavily on the range; when a cake has once risen,

until quite done, any sudden jar will cause it to settle down. Look at

this; you see the cake is all sunken.”

Marta stood, the picture of concern, her teeth pressed tight over her

under lip.

“Never mind, we’ll look on the cake as a lesson; to-morrow you must

make another as you saw me do this. Go and finish up-stairs, and I

think, as we have no cake to-day, I will make a pie for dinner. When

you come down you will see me make the paste, as everything I do I hope

you will do later.”

When Marta came down Molly weighed out six ounces of butter and eight

ounces of flour—the butter was straight from the ice-box and very firm;

these she put together in a chopping-bowl with a pinch of salt, opened

the window to let in the cool air, and then chopped butter and flour

together, but not very fine, the butter still remaining in well-defined

bits, some as large as white beans, when she left off. Making a hole

in the centre, she poured in a _small_ half cup of ice-water, and made

it, with as little pressure as possible, into a firm dough. A few bits

of butter and flour fell from it, but she did not stay to work them

in smoothly, explaining to Marta, as she turned all out on to the

pastry-board, that they would roll in smooth, and the less handling the

pastry had the better. She rolled it out half an inch thick, folded

it in three, putting any little flakes of butter that might be on the

board upon it, and rolled it out again. (This was done as quickly as

possible, so that the warm air of the kitchen might not soften the

butter.) She dredged very little flour on it, and folded it again in

three, rolled it again, and then once more folded and rolled it, making

three times in all.

“Now, if I were in a hurry, I should use the pastry at once, as it is

ready, but it will be so much lighter and better by being put on the

ice that I shall leave it till I come out to see to the dinner. I will

have cold lamb and salad for my lunch,—you know how to prepare the

lettuce.” And Molly left the kitchen, knowing she had now some hours in

which she could attend to getting things into place, etc.

Hardly was her luncheon cleared away, however, when Marta brought in a

card, saying a lady had given it to her, but she didn’t know what she

wanted. It bore the name of Mrs. Merit, and realizing that the visitor

was left standing at the front door, Molly hurried out to receive her.

She apologized for Marta’s keeping her there.

“Don’t mention it. This is a very early call; but coming into a

furnished house is so different from an empty one,—you get settled

in a few hours; besides, I knew this was your first experience of

housekeeping, and if one wants to be of real use it is of no use to

leave it till your difficulties are over.”

The lady had followed Molly into the parlor as she spoke, and seated

herself in the rocking-chair.

“You are very kind,” said Molly, thinking how very friendly it was.

“I mean to be kind, my dear. I know the difficulties of inexperienced

young housekeepers, and I want you to know that your nearest neighbor

is ready to run right in any time you want, and if there’s anything I

can tell you, why, you know where to come.”

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Molly gratefully; “I shall not

forget.”

The conversation now drifted off into talk about Greenfield, and Molly

learned the names of most of her near neighbors, and, it must be

confessed, more of their peculiarities than she cared to hear.

“I’m your nearest neighbor on this side the street, but there’s poor

Mrs. Lennox right opposite, poor thing! I’m glad she’s got some one to

take Mrs. Winfield’s place to her. She was a real good neighbor, and

when one’s life’s as hard as hers, a friendly neighbor is a good deal.”

Molly did not ask why Mrs. Lennox was qualified by the adjective “poor”

nor why her life was hard. She began to recognize in Mrs. Merit a type

of good-hearted women given over-much to interesting themselves in

other people’s affairs. Mrs. Merit rocked serenely on, however, and

proceeded to question Molly on her knowledge of housekeeping and to

give some strong hints on economy.

“You see, my dear, young people start off with an idea of style, and

it takes them some time to find out the best and cheapest way of doing

things, and there’s receipts I’ve got that I’ve altered and changed

so’s they don’t cost half, and taste, to my thinking, just as well, and

no danger of dyspepsia, and I’d be glad to send you over my written

book.”

Again Molly thanked her, and promised to avail herself of the book.

“Yes, and you’ll find your money goes a deal further; my receipts don’t

call for eggs and butter as if they grew out on the bushes.”

“Well, you see,” said Molly timidly, “we need so little of anything

that even a recipe which calls for what seems many eggs or much butter

can generally be divided by four for us, and the four eggs or half

pound of butter become only one egg and two ounces of butter; so we can

have the good things and still spend little.”

“But then you have so little of it, and it wastes time to make things

in small quantities.”

“Yes, but my time is not valuable, and besides it would be no economy

for me to make things too plain, for we might not eat them at all; and

the same would happen if I made much at a time of anything,—it would

not be eaten up. Mr. Bishop likes variety.”

“Well, _I_ believe in husbands’ liking food that’s according to their

means, and not in young women wearing their lives out cooking for them.

Mr. Merit was always satisfied with a plain, wholesome dinner, and that

I took care he had.”

Mrs. Merit’s words were verging on the unpleasant, but her manner was

so unconscious that Molly felt sure only kindness was meant; she was

simply instructing the young and inexperienced wife.

“Now there’s poor Mrs. Lennox, she’s got four children, and her

husband is as poor as a church mouse, and as pernickety about his

eating—nothing she can get is good enough for him; and the way she

manages to make both ends meet, and to dress them children as nice

as any, is a wonder to every one, though, poor thing, she is wearing

herself out.”

Shortly after, finding Molly was not curious about Mr. and Mrs. Lennox,

Mrs. Merit protested that she was paying an unwarrantably long visit,

rose and left, saying, as she did so, “You won’t be lonely long, you

are not like strangers; being such friends of Mrs. Winfield, every one

will make a point of calling very soon.”

Molly noticed, as she returned to the parlor, that Mrs. Merit was

standing at the door of the house she had pointed out as Mrs. Lennox’s;

doubtless she had gone to report her visit.

Molly went from her visitor to the kitchen. She had ordered in the

morning a porterhouse steak and a dozen oysters on the half shell. As

the butcher was also fishmonger, he had no objection to send so few,

and she had impressed on him that both were to be sent after five, and

the oysters opened at the house. She now told Marta, when they should

come, to put the oysters into the ice-box at once, and went to assure

herself that the fire was made up and would be ready by five o’clock

to cook. She found, as she had feared, that Marta had forgotten, and

the fire was at that stage of intense brightness which gives place to a

mass of dead white ash a little later, but would quickly burn up with

fresh fuel.

“How fortunate I came out, Marta; red as this fire is, in half an hour

it would have been near out. Put a little coal on; when it is lighted

well, not before, you can rake out the ashes and put on more coal, but

not too much.” As she spoke she opened all the drafts.

She meant to have a ragout of the rougher part of the lamb—the neck

piece—as a second dish; if Harry did not care for it at dinner, it

would make a very savory one for breakfast. She cut it up into neat

pieces; there was about a pound and a half of meat, very lean, and,

properly treated, the tenderest in the whole sheep.

“If I had to pay the same for this part of the lamb as for the loin,

I should still prefer it for boiling and stewing,” she said to Marta,

“but so few people will believe it. Get me one onion and a carrot, and

prepare them. I wish I had some canned peas, they would be such an

addition; but I have not half the little things in store yet that I

need.”

Molly was making this ragout, not that it was needed for dinner so

much, although it made variety and a better-seeming table, but her

chief thought was for the breakfast. Having the vegetables prepared,

and the range being by this time hot on the top, she put a spider,

containing a table-spoonful of butter and one of flour, on the stove,

and told Marta to stir slowly till the flour and butter were pale

brown, while she tied six sprigs of parsley and half a bay leaf

together. When the flour and butter formed a smooth brownish paste,

or _roux_, as the cooking-books call it, the carrots and onions, cut

small, and the meat were added, with a half salt-spoonful of pepper,

three level salt-spoonfuls of salt, and a tea-spoonful of vinegar.

These were all stirred round, and a close cover put on.

“Now these have to be stirred every minute or so, to prevent burning,

till brown, and while the ragout is cooking I will make a lemon pie. I

have written the recipe, Marta, as I shall do all for the future, and

you will keep the book in the kitchen. I will read it over to you.”

The recipe was, of course, written in German. Molly had not been able

to do it without help from the dictionary, but she remembered that she

was improving her German, which, indeed, was one of her reasons for

taking a German girl, the compulsory practice would be so good for

herself.

“Half a cup of fine bread crumbs, just enough milk to swell them, two

eggs, three table-spoonfuls of sugar, two of butter, the juice of one

lemon, the grated rinds of two. Beat sugar and butter to a cream, then

the eggs and lemon juice, and last the bread and milk. You can make the

mixture while I roll the paste and get the pie ready, but first I’m

going to knock a few holes in this tin pie-plate, so that the crust may

be light at the bottom.”

She took a small nail and hammer, and with it perforated the pie-plate

till it looked like a colander. The paste was firm and hard, and Molly

rolled it out with perfect ease, the third of an inch thick, without

its once sticking to the board, which was lightly floured. She laid the

pie-plate on it, and cut a circle a little larger than the tin to allow

for the depth. Every touch she made was quick and light, just as if the

paste were tulle or white satin. She turned the plate over, laid the

paste on it, and pressed it _only on the bottom_, never touching the

edges. She cut a little piece and put it in the oven to try it. Then

she cut two long strips of paste, about an inch wide, and laid them

lightly around the pie, so as to make the edge twice the thickness of

the bottom; she gently pressed the _lower_ edge of this strip to make

it adhere to the pie, and then poured in the lemon mixture.

“Mr. Bishop doesn’t like meringue, or I would have kept out the two

whites of eggs, to make it,” said Molly, as she took out the little

“trier” she had in the oven.

It had risen a full inch, and “the separate flakes could be counted!”

Marta exclaimed, as she saw it. Her intelligence only seemed to rouse

when she saw something out of the ordinary routine of cooking, because,

as Molly afterwards found, her ideal of cooking was what the man cook

at the restaurant in Germany could do; she never expected to see a lady

do them, and he had made puff paste just like this, and it seemed magic

to her.

“And if she had never lived at the restaurant she would not have had

intelligence enough to know what to admire. It is the old story,—to

those who know nothing of art, a gay chromo is better than a fine

painting,” said Molly, when she told Harry, who broke into good-natured

laughter.

“Oh, my dear Molly, you are too delicious in your enthusiasm! What

would our artists say to such a comparison?”

Molly joined in the laugh. “It sounds absurd, but the principle is the

same. The poor girls who have no experience of good cooking or refined

living can’t be expected to appreciate it.”

But this was in the evening, and we are digressing from the dinner.

By the time the pie was in the oven, the lamb had been twenty minutes

in the spider,—Marta occasionally stirring it about. Two thirds of a

pint of hot water was now added (it left plenty of gravy around the

meat, yet _did not cover it_), the parsley was put in, and the spider

closely covered and set where it would _just simmer_, as the success of

the dish depended on its simmering, and _not_ boiling. Molly waited to

see it come to the boiling-point.

“Now, Marta, remember that _to simmer_ means this,” she said, pointing

out the gentlest little sizzling round the edge of the pan. “Perhaps

you hardly think it is cooking at all, but that scarcely perceptible

motion is what I mean when I say, ‘let it simmer;’ faster than that

would be boiling. You must understand these distinctions if ever you

hope to make a good cook. We are going to have Lima beans, and stuffed

potatoes, and cheese canapées—to use up the baker’s bread—and, as I do

not mean to be in the kitchen to-night except just as you broil the

steak, I will get everything ready now.”

So saying, she cut slices of bread half an inch thick, then, with a

large round cutter, cut circles; these she cut in half—they were not

the true crescent shape that canapées should be, but they would answer;

then she put a table-spoonful of butter in a small saucepan (using a

saucepan, because to fry, or rather sauter, so little, the butter

required would be twice as much if it had to go over the large space

of a frying-pan), and then she fried four of the canapées a very light

brown. When done she took them up, and grated about an ounce of cheese,

and setting the canapées on a small tin ready for the oven, she heaped

the grated cheese on them, then sprinkled on them a little pepper and

salt.

“Marta, those are ready, but need not go into the oven till I tell you.

At five you wash four large potatoes and put them into the oven; at

a quarter past you can put the Lima beans into a saucepan of boiling

water, with two tea-spoonfuls of salt and one of sugar; let them come

quickly to the boil again.”

Molly took the pie out of the oven. It was beautifully brown, and the

edge, half an inch thick when it went into the oven, was now more than

double, and more flaky than real puff paste, as generally made.

“Now, Marta, I’ll leave you to set the table quite alone to-night, and

to do everything by yourself, except broil the steak, which I have not

yet shown you how to do, and to dress the vegetables. Chop ready for me

two table-spoonfuls of parsley and one slice of onion very fine.”

Molly had to congratulate herself on having gotten so far forward with

the dinner, for just as she was leaving the kitchen Mrs. Lennox came.

“Mrs. Merit told me you were settled and ready to see your neighbors,

so I would not delay coming over. I have not the same good excuse as

she has for so early a visit, for, beyond good feeling, I cannot be of

any use to any one, my hands are so completely tied with my family; but

you are Mrs. Winfield’s friend, and you seem no stranger to me.”

“But no excuse is needed,” said Molly. “I think it exceedingly kind.”

Mrs. Lennox was a very nervous-looking woman, who had once been very

pretty, and was still young enough to be so. When they had talked a

little while, it proved that one of Molly’s dear friends had been a

school-fellow of Mrs. Lennox. This made them quite intimate in a few

minutes, and Molly found herself talking freely of her hopes and plans.

“Oh! but how could you have the courage to keep house, when you had no

family to make boarding impossible?”

“But it needed more courage to go on boarding, I think,” laughed Molly.

“Oh! wait a bit, till your servant goes off at a moment’s notice, just

as you have company to dinner; or till your husband begins to criticise

the food, or—if you are too newly married for that—till you see him

look at the table in despair, and sit down and eat as if it were all

chaff,—those are the things that will make you long to give it all up.”

“But,” said Molly gravely, for that bitter phrase, “if you are too

newly married for that,” shocked her, “I don’t think, if girls served

me so half a dozen times a year, it would be more than a temporary

annoyance, while to board is a daily and hourly discomfort; as for my

husband, I shall try at least to give him as good food as we had while

boarding.”

“Yes, as good food, but it is the variety; on small means it is

impossible to have it. You smile! it is all smooth sailing for you yet,

but I assure you the first time you find yourself without a girl you’ll

realize what I mean; but it is beautiful to see your enthusiasm, and

recalls my own early married life.”

She sighed; Molly pretended not to hear her, although she was full of

sympathy for her weary looks; she laughed lightly and said, “Well, I

don’t believe I should be in despair to find myself without a maid! It

would worry Mr. Bishop for my sake, but not me.”

“That’s all very well in theory, but when it comes to having the

breakfast to get, the fires to light, and you find the bread won’t

rise, and nothing goes as it ought to go, you’ll be inclined to sit

down and cry.”

“But I think things would go better than that. I am so fond of cooking

that I shall practice a good deal, so that, if I find myself deserted,

we shall not feel the loss beyond less leisure for me.”

“You are fond of cooking—that’s different! I hate it, but then that’s

because I have it to do, I suppose, for, though I sympathized with you

in advance in case you are left without, I never have a servant; and as

I have four children, and make all their clothes and my own, you may

suppose I have no time to spend over the fire. We are obliged to live

very plainly, and if I can manage to get the food on the table in an

eatable form, that’s all I try for. I tell you this now because, if, as

I hope, we should become more than formal acquaintances, you will know

what to expect at my house.”

There was a pained look in the weary face, as if the saying had not

been pleasant, and Molly’s heart ached at the sad picture of toil her

words conjured up. And yet, after she had left, Molly remembered the

dress of cheap material, but trimmed to excess, and thought of the

weary hours it had taken to make, and wondered why she did it.

Molly, when again alone, hesitated what to do. She knew of several bits

of sewing she had to do for the house, but she was a little tired; and

besides, after a week or two Marta would not need her so much in the

kitchen—or, at least, she hoped not; meanwhile, the new “Century” was

on the table, and she took it up to read till it became necessary for

her to go and direct Marta.

Molly had had a hint or two from her two visitors that they considered

she would be making rather a slave of herself, but she had no such

intention; she did not think it harder work to be in the kitchen than

at the sewing-machine. At half past five she went to see if the table

was neatly laid, and made a few changes, calling Marta’s attention

to them; then went into the kitchen, and found the parsley and onion

not nearly fine enough; these she chopped over, and by that time the

potatoes and Lima beans were done.

“Pour the water off the beans, Marta, then dress them just as you did

the cabbage last night; stir them well around, and move them to a part

of the range where they will just simmer. When you have done it, you

can put the oysters on the table, six on each plate, the points to the

centre, with a quarter of a lemon in the middle of each.”

While she was speaking, Molly had put a little milk on to boil, and cut

the tops from the potatoes, and holding them in a cloth, scooped out

the inside with a spoon, into a bowl which she had made hot, without

breaking the skin; when the potato was all out, she added to it a

table-spoonful of butter and the parsley and onion, moistening the

whole with hot milk, and then with a fork she beat it rapidly back and

forth till very white and light; then she seasoned with salt and pepper

to taste, and filled the skins, which she had put to keep hot again,

and set them in the oven. The milk being boiling and the process quick,

they had not had time to cool much.

“Now, Marta, heat the gridiron and put your dishes to get hot; then put

the steak on, open all the drafts that the smoke may go up.”

The fire was clear and not too high, and she watched while Marta

broiled it, directing her to turn the steak frequently.

“Keep the gridiron tilted from you, so that the grease runs to the back

of the stove, and don’t be frightened at its flaring; better it should

flare than smoke; it is the smoke, not the flame, that blackens the

steak.”

When it had broiled eight minutes it was to be laid on a hot dish, with

a lump of butter on it, and liberally seasoned with pepper and salt.

But as Molly heard Harry come in, she left the butter and seasoning

ready and went to him, trusting Marta to bring the dinner to table,

telling her, as she left the kitchen, to put the cheese canapées in

the oven, on the upper shelf. They would be brown by the time they had

finished the meat.

CHAPTER VII.

MOLLY AND MRS. LENNOX—ECONOMICAL BUYING MAKES GOOD LIVING.

A WEEK passed, and Molly found her ten dollars left a narrow margin,

as will be seen from the account she triumphantly showed to Harry,

and the week’s bills of fare, which she wrote out neatly, appending

every recipe, and which, for the benefit of those who may wish to do

likewise, I will give in its place; but before that week was over,

Molly was resolving other problems. She had seen Mrs. Lennox again, and

Harry was delighted with Mr. Lennox, who traveled on the same train

with him, and in answer to Molly’s remarks on the hard life his wife

led, he maintained that his pity was for the husband.

“I can picture to myself that household, Molly, and the scrambling

meals that man gets. Why, he was astounded when I told him we lived

just as well as I want to live, and what we had to live on. Yes, dear,

I fear I did boast to the poor fellow of the charming little dinners

you got up, and asked if he knew any one who could beat that? He said:—

“‘Well, I wish Mrs. Bishop would teach my wife how to put some flavor

into what we eat. Our means are narrow, but I do know that if Letty

knew how to cook, we should all be better, and she herself. We can’t

expect fancy dishes—our family is too large and our means too small for

that—but even Irish stew may taste of something besides onions and hot

water.’

“I should think it could; nothing I enjoy better than Irish stew.

However, I didn’t crow any more over poor Lennox, but you needn’t give

all your pity to Mrs. Lennox.”

Already Molly had decided in her own mind that Mrs. Lennox was making

a great mistake in the way she had chosen for doing her duty to her

family, and that the weary days spent at the sewing-machine might be

partly spent in the kitchen with advantage to her own health and her

children’s. She longed to help her, but dared not take the liberty. But

the day came when Mrs. Lennox herself gave the opening. They met in the

street on Saturday, and Molly mentioned that she was on her way to the

butcher’s.

“I see you go every morning down town, but it is rare for me, for I

can’t spare the time, so I have to trust to what the butcher sends. You

see we live so plainly that we haven’t much choice—it’s just steak and

chops and roast beef. Mr. Lennox can’t bear cold mutton, so we never

get a joint of it.”

“But don’t you think the morning walk would do you good? I believe it

will me; and then I have some satisfaction in seeing my meat before I

buy it, although we buy very little.”

Molly was terribly afraid of seeming didactic, and spoke in a rather

apologetic way.

“Yes, but you haven’t four children, my dear; however, as I am out, I

will go with you. How I wish you would tell me what to get in place of

chops for to-day and a roast for to-morrow! We all hate them, but we

can’t afford poultry.”

“I hardly like to suggest, for I don’t know your tastes; but if I

wanted to live cheaply,—forgive me, you have given me reason to suppose

that you have to be economical”—

“Economy isn’t the word,—we can barely make ends meet, and I work

myself to death to avoid spending an unnecessary dime.”

“I know you do, and for that reason I would like to tell you a few

things I learnt in France, where they make a franc go as far as we

would a dollar, and yet live well.”

“Tell it me; but for goodness’ sake don’t tell me that lentils are as

good as meat—we abhor lentils—or that peas and beans are nitrogenous;

I’ve read that sort of thing till I’m sick; if you haven’t the appetite

of a ploughman you can’t eat things because they contain nitrogen any

more than you can live on medicine.”

“I’m a little of your opinion, but I mean really good living that, if

you didn’t know the cost, would seem almost luxurious. It is simply

buying, and using what you buy, judiciously.”

Mrs. Lennox smiled a little incredulously, but said, courteously, “I am

quite open to conviction.”

“What do you propose to pay for your roast of beef?”

“It will be at least $2, for it is of no use getting less than eight

pounds; and chops for to-day will be about 35 cents.”

“And how long will the roast last?”

“It has to last till Tuesday, though out of an eight-pound roast there

isn’t much but bone and fat the third day.”

“And you have then something extra to get for breakfast?”

She laughed a little. “To tell the truth, our breakfast is slim; I

can’t afford meat, and Mr. Lennox usually has an egg or two; he never

cares, fortunately, for a heavy breakfast, but prefers knick-knacks.”

“This is the sort of housekeeping Harry dreaded,” thought Molly, but

she said aloud, “Then you would really spend $2.35 this morning for

meat to last till Tuesday?”

“At the very least, but more likely $2.75, for they could hardly cut me

exactly eight pounds.”

“Then I would suggest you get, instead of the roast, either a leg of

mutton at 15 cents a pound, or a piece of beef at the same price for

_à la mode_ beef; and if you choose the mutton, then you will have a

really nice pot-pie to-night in place of chops. You will find that you

will buy ten pounds of meat for $1.50, and then you can get some of the

knick-knacks Mr. Lennox likes for breakfast.”

“But he won’t look at cold mutton, or Irish stew made of it.”

“No; Irish stew needs fresh meat, and cold mutton is not appetizing;

but I propose your having hot mutton each meal.”

“But that will make so much cooking, and I am alone to do it!”

“I know,” said Molly, gently, “but I am sure that sewing-machine is

half killing you; can’t you give it up for an hour or two each day?”

“My dear, by the time I get through my housework it is near noon; then

there’s the children’s dinner to get and clear, and I don’t get to

sewing till after one. Then the afternoon and evening I have to give

to it; if I could go and buy new material I need not have half the

work, but it is the cutting down, making over, ripping, altering, and

planning that wears one out.”

“Then I will help you,” said Molly. “I have time, and if you’ll promise

to give one hour to the kitchen, I’ll sew an hour with you and cook an

hour. I am so sure the change of work will brighten you up.”

“Heaven knows I need brightening! I feel a perfect hag, and I’m only

twenty-eight.”

“Then you accept?”

“Yes,” hesitating; “yet I don’t know why I can allow you to”—

“Oh, don’t say one word! I love it.”

They had slackened pace in their earnest talk, but now they had reached

the butcher’s.

“You are to order just what you like,” said Mrs. Lennox.

“I will.”

Molly chose a good-sized leg of mutton, weighing eight pounds, and told

the butcher to cut it nearly in half, leaving the large part for the

loin end; and a pound and half of round steak. She ordered also half

a pound of beef suet; then, turning to Mrs. Lennox, she asked if Mr.

Lennox was fond of kidneys for breakfast?

“I believe he is.”

Then a beef kidney was added, and the amount spent was:—

Leg of mutton, $1.20

Suet, .06

Kidney, .10

Steak, .24

———

Total, $1.60

“Well, I count myself nearly a dollar in pocket so far,” said Mrs.

Lennox, “but I have tried buying economical meats before, though in the

end it was no economy, for we did not eat it.”

“I will forgive you if you don’t eat this,” said Molly, laughing; “but

I must hurry home; I have a chicken pie to make for to-morrow’s dinner,

but I will see you later in the day. I am responsible, you know, for

the meat I have bought.”

Molly’s own dinner being soup, veal cutlets, potato croquettes, Lima

beans, and apple pudding, and the soup ready, all but heating it, she

meant to make the pudding and prepare the croquettes, and leave Marta

to her own resources for the vegetables and breading cutlets,—she,

herself, would be back in time to see the actual cooking of her own

meat. But of her own cooking I will speak in the next chapter.

At three o’clock, then, Molly went over to Mrs. Lennox, whom she found

busy feather-stitching several yards of navy blue cashmere ruffling

with red crewel.

“This is for Milly’s fall frock; it was first my dress, then Lily’s,

now it comes to Milly, and the red will make a change.”

“You have far more patience than I,” said Molly.

“Yes, I don’t know what I should do without it. Must the cooking begin

now? I hate to lose daylight.”

“Yes, the pot-pie will take long, slow cooking to be good, but you can

come back in half an hour.”

“Oh! suppose we have that steak fried—just for to-day; well pounded it

will be tender enough. I hate to leave this.”

“I will go down, then, if you will let one of the little girls show me

where you keep things.”

“Oh, no; I can’t let you!” said Mrs. Lennox. “But that is just it;

don’t you see yourself I have no time to cook?”

Molly longed to say that it seemed as important to her that the food

should be well prepared as that the flounce should be feather-stitched,

but of course, she said nothing, and the next minute they were down in

Mrs. Lennox’s neat kitchen.

“This pot-pie I propose making is an English dish my father was very

fond of, and it is a little different from our dish of that name.”

“This is very kind of you, Mrs. Bishop. I only fear you will see what

an up-hill business it is to make a family live well on very little

money.”

“What do you call little?” asked Molly, busily cutting the steak into

finger-lengths.

“$80 a month to keep six people, and out of it $20 for rent; that

leaves sixty for everything else.”

Molly thought that was not too little to insure a plain, solid comfort,

but she must gain Mrs. Lennox’s confidence in her ability and good-will

before telling her so, and she went on quietly preparing for the

pot-pie.

CHAPTER VIII.

BEEF POT-PIE—LEG OF MUTTON—TWO ROASTS—SEVERAL WHOLESOME ECONOMICAL

DISHES.

WHEN Molly had cut the steak into finger-lengths, she floured the

pieces lightly, and put an iron saucepan that held about three quarts

on the stove, and, when it was hot, dropped in the fat of the steak,

then the meat, and left them to fry at the bottom of the saucepan.

“I should think that would burn,” said Mrs. Lennox.

“No, because the meat fat is there; but it has to brown very quickly,

or the meat will be hard; that is why I let the saucepan get so hot.

Now I want a carrot, an onion, and a turnip—all of medium size.”

“I have only small onions.”

“Two of those, then.”

Molly washed and then began to peel them—the turnip thick, the carrot

very thin.

“What can _I_ do?” asked Mrs. Lennox.

“You can chop that suet very fine, taking away all skin and veins.”

Molly cut the vegetables into slices a quarter of an inch thick, made

piles of half a dozen slices of carrot, then cut across them at even

distances; it was more quickly done than the usual hit or miss way,

and they looked far better; the turnip she did the same, and then she

stirred the meat round, which was sending a savory odor through the

house. The peeled onion she dropped into water, and then, with hands

still in the water, cut it across at equal distances all the way

through, then across again.

“What are you doing that in water for?”

“It prevents the odor clinging so much to the hands, and also

mitigates its power to make me weep.” As she spoke she took all the

vegetables to the saucepan, dropped them in and stirred them quickly

round, then poured two kitchen cups of boiling water on the whole, and

seasoned it with a tea-spoonful of salt and a quarter one of pepper.

“I want to watch that come to the boil, and then put it where it will

just simmer.”

She had covered the saucepan close, and then turned to Mrs. Lennox.

The suet in her unaccustomed hands was still far from being chopped

fine, and the warmth of the kitchen had made it clog together. Molly

said, “If suet gets soft while being chopped, shake a little flour

into it, also flour the chopping-knife. When chopping it in winter

for mincemeat, I let it get well frozen.” She chopped vigorously as

she spoke, and it was soon so fine as to look like tapioca. She then

turned to the saucepan, which had reached the boiling-point, and drew

it aside, carefully changing the position until it just simmered. She

then pointed out to Mrs. Lennox the little sizzling round the edge of

the saucepan, barely perceptible, and told her that it should cook no

faster.

“But that doesn’t appear to be cooking at all.”

“Oh, yes! and meat stewed so will always be tender. If you like we can

go to the sewing now, as it is too soon to make the crust.”

She went upstairs and sewed till five o’clock, chatting the while, Mrs.

Lennox expatiating on the privations of the whole family; and Molly

could well understand how it came about, with a poor, weary mother

sewing strenuously to make the children look well, and understanding so

little of domestic economy that she did not see that, by a different

mode of living, she would save enough in the month either to buy new

clothes or to lessen her own incessant labor by getting help. Nor could

Molly at this time make any suggestion.

At five o’clock Molly took a cup of the suet, and a scant two cups

of flour, with a level tea-spoonful of salt, tossed all together in

a bowl, then made a hole in the centre, and poured in half a cup of

cold water, _quickly_ and _lightly_ made it into a dough with a knife,

adding a few drops of water to bind the crumbs; there was no pressure,

no attempt at kneading, and the dough was soft, but not sticky; then

she turned it on the floured pastry-board, and rolled it quickly; it

formed a fairly good round shape, an inch thick, and somewhat larger

than the top of the saucepan. She laid it on the top of the meat and

vegetables, after tasting the gravy to see if it was seasoned enough.

“You see it forms a sort of lid to the stew, which must now be put

forward, as the cold crust has cooled it, till it boils again, or the

crust will be heavy.” She placed it in the hottest spot as she spoke.

“But do you mean to say that crust will be light without baking powder?”

“Yes, quite light; if it is made quickly, rolled only once—just as

you would biscuit dough, only not so soft—brought quickly to the

boiling-point when in the saucepan, and then _kept gently simmering_

an hour, not allowed to soak in the gravy without cooking. But if you

choose you can add baking-powder; it makes a much more crumbly crust.

Made as I have made it, it is considered very wholesome and nourishing,

as beef fat and wheaten flour are two of the best kinds of food; lard

and flour and baking-powder are by no means so wholesome a combination.

When dishing it, cut the top crust pie-fashion, and lay it round the

meat.”

“Well, ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating,’ and if it is fairly

good I shall be so glad to have some dish that is a change from our

routine, and it is, after all, easy enough,” said Mrs. Lennox, washing

potatoes for the oven.

“Oh, quite! It only needs strict attention to the _little_ points,

the slow simmering and the seasoning; the browning at first is not

necessary, although it is better looking and better flavored by taking

that little trouble.”

“Ah, my dear, it is the _little_ trouble, that seems nothing to you,

that makes so much difference to a busy woman like me.”

“If you like this dish, I have several others that I think you may find

both very cheap and very nice, and I shall be very glad at any time to

come over and give you a helping hand in the kitchen. And, by and bye,

this suet crust is the foundation for several good puddings,—rolled out

and spread with jam, and boiled one hour and a half as a roly-poly, it

is excellent; with a cup of currants added, before wetting the flour

and suet, it makes the ‘spotted Dick’ dear to English children; or, in

place of currants, the juice of a lemon and the grated rind of two,

with half a cup of sugar, makes a nice plain lemon pudding, but long,

steady boiling is absolutely necessary to lightness. Excuse my telling

you all this, but you know I am so fond of cooking, I can’t help it.”

“I am much obliged. I like to hear all about it, even if I can’t make

the things.”

“Now about that leg of mutton: I propose you roast the loin end

to-morrow, and there will be a little left cold, which you will not use

on Monday, but cook the other half—have it boiled, with caper sauce, or

roasted.”

“I will boil it, for that is a dish we all like; only what to do with

cold _boiled_ mutton I don’t know; that is why, though we like it, we

never have it.”

“Tuesday, you will have the remains of the Sunday roast and the remains

of Monday’s boiled mutton, and I will run in and show you how to make a

nice dish of them; but be sure to boil the half leg in only just enough

water, and _very slowly_, and keep the broth; if you boil a turnip and

onion with it, it will be all the better for broth and meat.”

“Thank you; that sounds like a great improvement on hot meat Sunday and

cold Monday and Tuesday. What about that kidney? I haven’t an idea how

to cook it.”

“Soak it in salt and water an hour; cut it in pieces half an inch

thick, leaving out the core; flour them; put them in a saucepan with

half a table-spoonful of butter and a thin slice of onion, unless it is

disliked; let them fry five minutes, then add half a tea-cup of boiling

water, and stand the saucepan where it will just simmer ten minutes—if

you leave it longer the kidney will be hard. I like to have it served

on toast, but that is optional; only be sure it is served as soon as

cooked, and with quite hot plates.”

“Thank you ever so much. Mr. Lennox will enjoy his breakfast, I’ve no

doubt.”

“I hope you will, too,” said Molly.

“I dare say I shall, thanks to you.”

Molly hurried home, for she had her own dinner to attend to; and

to-night she was going to look over her accounts and convince Harry

that “Ten Dollars” is “Enough” to pay all the weekly expenses they

would be likely to incur.

CHAPTER IX.

VEAL CUTLETS, BREADED.

WHEN Molly reached home it was nearly six. Marta had followed

directions fairly well, but Molly had taken the precaution to do

everything she could before leaving home. She had herself cut half the

veal cutlets into neat pieces, the size of a large oyster, leaving the

rest for her pie, pounded each, squeezed on it a few drops of lemon

juice, and piled one upon the other, and told Marta to leave them

so an hour or two, then bread them exactly as she had done the lamb

chops. She had also cut some _thin_ slices of breakfast bacon, taken

off the rind and dark inner skin very thinly; and now, having let the

frying-pan get quite hot, she put the bacon in it. As soon as it looked

clear she turned it; it curled up, and when it had been in the pan

about three minutes she took it out and laid in the cutlets; the half a

dozen pieces left room to turn them about comfortably.

“You see, Marta, I don’t drop these into deep fat, because veal is a

meat that requires long cooking, and is one of the few things I think

better fried, or rather ‘_sauté_,’ in this way, with only enough fat to

cook them, but it is much more trouble to do than the frying in boiling

fat.”

The cutlets took nearly ten minutes to fry a nice brown on one side,

because, although the pan was kept at a good heat, she had to guard

against burning. Then each piece was turned, and, when quite brown (it

took nearly ten minutes more to get so), taken up and put on the dish,

and the bacon round it. Molly took the pan to the table, poured off the

fat, which was dark, and put in the pan a dessert-spoonful of butter

and a scant one of flour, set them on the stove and let them melt and

brown a little; then she drew the pan aside, and poured a small cup of

the hot soup they were going to have for dinner into it, and stirred

till smooth, mashing all the brown clinging gravy with the back of her

spoon. She explained to Marta that, if the soup had not been at hand,

water and pepper and salt would have been used; or, if there was oyster

liquor in the house, she should have used that and water in equal parts.

“Now take in the soup, Marta,—and while that is on the table, let this

gravy boil a few seconds, then pour it through the strainer into the

dish with the cutlets; don’t let it boil longer, or it will get too

thick.”

After dinner, Harry told Molly that one of the gentlemen on the cars,

a friend of the Winfields’, had spoken to him about joining a dramatic

reading-club, of which he was president, and said his wife was coming

to invite Molly. “But I don’t think we can afford it, dear.”

“Would you like it?” asked Molly quickly.

“Oh, I don’t know! Yes, I think it might brighten the winter a bit.”

“Well, we will see after my accounts are audited. First, I want to ask

you how you consider you have fared this week?”

“Admirably,—so well that I’m afraid of the accounts.”

“You need not be. Now I want you to listen while I read over the bills

of fare for the week.”

Harry nodded in amused good humor, and smoked on comfortably.

“On MONDAY we had chicken salad, etc., for lunch. _Dinner_—Roast

shoulder of lamb, potatoes, cabbage, macaroni, tomato salad, and

peaches and cream.

“TUESDAY. _Breakfast_—Breaded chops, baked potatoes, corn muffins.”

Harry nodded assent to each item as Molly turned her bright eyes on him

to make sure he was giving attention.

“TUESDAY. _Dinner_—Oysters, steak, ragout of lamb, stuffed potatoes,

Lima beans, cheese canapées, and lemon pie.

“WEDNESDAY. _Breakfast_—Hashed lamb, poached eggs, and soufflé bread.

_Dinner_—Tomato cream soup, roast breast of lamb, chicken croquettes,

stewed onions and potatoes, peach pudding.

“THURSDAY. _Breakfast_—Lamb chops broiled, eggs, tomato salad, stewed

potatoes, muffins. _Dinner_—Fried smelts, beef _à la mode_, cones of

carrots and turnips, mashed potatoes, lettuce salad, cheese fritters,

amber pudding.

“FRIDAY. _Breakfast_—Brown hash, poached eggs, corn bread, baked

potatoes. _Dinner_—Bisque of clams, beef _au gratin_, chicken rissoles,

cauliflower, potatoes, tomato salad, custard pie.

“SATURDAY. _Breakfast_—Scalloped clams, cauliflower, omelet, pop-overs,

stewed potatoes. _Dinner_—Clear soup, veal cutlets, mashed potatoes,

cabbage, macaroni, apple pudding.

“And to-morrow’s breakfast and dinner, though not eaten, is paid for,

so I add that.

“SUNDAY. _Breakfast_—Broiled bacon, poached eggs, muffins.

_Dinner_—Clear soup, chicken pie, mashed potatoes, creamed onions,

tomato salad, peach compote, and custard.”

Molly concluded her list with rather a triumphant air, as one who knows

she has achieved what she set out to do.

“Yes, Molly, we have had all those good breakfasts and dinners, and I’m

afraid to think of the work you have had to cook all that. Let me look

at your poor little hands.”

She held them towards him. They were white and soft as ever.

“Nevertheless,” he said, pressing them between his own, “I feel such a

selfish brute to let you do it.”

“Nonsense! I like it. Why, didn’t I always go to Mrs. Welles’ house

after each cooking-lesson, and repeat the whole lesson, when I hadn’t

the satisfaction of seeing you share the good things I made, because

we were boarding? And didn’t she and I repeat every failure until we

got it right? Those were the days when I had backaches and headaches,

because I was so anxious to succeed and failed so often; but _now_

it is all at my fingers’ ends, and no more trouble than the simplest

cooking—far less, indeed; it takes a little more time and makes more

washing-up for Marta; and if we had a large family and I had other

duties, I could not give so much time; nor would it be right to

overwork one girl to cater to our tastes; but in a tiny house like

this, with two or even four people, there’s no question of overwork for

either mistress or maid.”

“But even your time, dear, oughtn’t to be sacrificed to give me good

dinners.”

“No, nor will it be; but what is my time good for, except to make your

income go as far as it will? I get all the time to read I want; I am

not fond of plain sewing; and as clothes ready made can now be bought

so good and cheap, I don’t mean to do more than keep the buttons sewed

on,”—here she smiled as she thought of the favorite grievance,—“the

stockings well darned, and everything mended; so; you’ll never have the

satisfaction of seeing me stitch long white seams, nor wear a shirt

made by me.”

“Thank heaven!” ejaculated Harry.

“No, nowadays _that_ I consider real waste of time. And then I’ve no

gift for fancy work, pretty as the modern version of it is, so I’d like

to know what I should do with the whole day if I didn’t do something in

the kitchen? I expect, when Marta is trained, never to spend more than

an hour and a half each day there, and an hour besides for the other

little household duties; that leaves a margin for visiting, reading,

and the sewing I may have.”

“Very well, Molly dear; that programme sounds very easy, but whether it

works in practice I don’t know.”

“Everything depends on Marta,—if she shows intelligence and cares to

learn, things will go as I have planned after the first month; but

supposing she actually never proves capable of doing the cooking

alone, I shall simply make up my mind to spend the hour between five

and six every day in the kitchen. I shan’t like to do it, because it

ought not to be necessary, but one has to accept some shortcoming with

any servant, and I would sooner this than some others; but to make

it worth while to keep her under those circumstances, she must be

very good in other things. There! I’m talking instead of attending to

business,” said Molly; “here is an account of our expenditure.”