Ten Dollars Enough: Keeping House Well on Ten Dollars a Week / How It Has Been Done; How It May Be Done Again

by Catherine Owen

FOOTNOTE:

[3] The wine is optional.

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CHAPTER XXXV.
MACAROONS—JUMBLES—GENOESE TABLETTES—IRISH STEW.

The next day Mrs. Welles and Molly were in the kitchen bright and early. She had ordered the day before all she would need for dinner, and did not require to leave the house. They had planned to make macaroons and fancy cakes. For the macaroons, half a pound of almond paste and three quarters of a pound of powdered sugar were weighed carefully, then three large eggs were separated and beaten. Mrs. Welles put the almond paste in the chopping-bowl, and chopped it into fine crumbs (which saves a good deal of mashing with a fork), while Molly beat eggs and added the sugar, making icing, in fact; then the crumbled almond paste was put to it and mashed with the back of a fork into the icing, till it was all smooth and perfectly blended; some sheets of thin paper were rubbed with suet and cut to fit the dripping-pan, on which they were to be baked; half a tea-spoonful was dropped on a bit of paper, and put in to try the oven, and meanwhile a dozen or so of almonds were blanched and each split into six.

The macaroon, when looked at, had flattened down, as it should do, but just a shade more than was just right, and a tea-spoonful more powdered sugar was stirred in. Then the mixture was taken up on the end of a tea-spoon, and bits as large as small nutmegs were dropped on the greased paper,—about two inches apart,—and then on each of them three or four bits of almond were put irregularly. The oven was moderate,—not too cool, nor yet hot enough to color them till they had been in it ten minutes.

“While you bake those, I’ll make some Genoese pastry,” said Mrs. Welles.

“That is a novelty to me; at least, I have heard of it, but not tried it. If I remember rightly you told me you had once tried it, but found it very unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, it was too sticky while warm to cut, and too brittle when cold, but I have now another recipe which I want to try, and if it is good it will be just the thing for your fancy cakes. This is the recipe:

“Genoese pastry.—Four ounces of flour, three of butter, four of almond paste, and five eggs. Melt the butter in a bowl, taking care it does not get very hot. Break the eggs into a bowl, add the sugar to them, stand the bowl in a saucepan of boiling water, and whip eggs and sugar for twenty minutes, but they must not get very hot; take the bowl from the water, add the almond paste, crumbled fine, to it, beat till smooth, then add the butter, and last of all slip in the flour, stirring lightly all the time; bake, in a round jelly-cake-pan lined with buttered paper very neatly fitted and standing an inch above the edge, in a rather quick oven for half an hour. When it is done, no mark should remain on it when pressed with the finger.”

“Has any one you know tried the recipe?”

“Oh, yes; and I have eaten the cake, and found it excellent.”

Molly now opened the oven to look at the macaroons, and found they could be put for one minute at the top, to take a deeper tint, and another pan which she had ready could be put in the bottom of the oven.

Then she prepared one more sheet, after taking the first from the oven. These she left on the pan to cool a few minutes before touching them; then she lifted the paper from it, replaced it by a fresh one, and did not attempt to take the macaroons from the paper till they were nearly cold. She handled them after they were baked, and until cold, as if they were egg shells.

Marta, who had now finished her morning’s work, was told to put on the bouillon.

“You must take the largest pot, Marta; that shin weighs eight pounds. It is cut in three, but gash it well, take out the marrow, and put on eight quarts of cold water; when it is near the boiling-point, skim it,—take care the scum does not break. After it is off, throw in a wine-glass of cold water and wait; when it is once again near boiling, skim again; repeat the cold water and skimming twice, then leave it to boil four hours very slowly.”

When separating the yolks of eggs from the whites, for the macaroons, they had been at once beaten with a tea-spoonful of cold water to prevent hardening,—which they are apt to do when waiting even a very short time, if not beaten,—and set aside for jumbles, which Molly made while Mrs. Welles made the Genoese pastry. She used for them six ounces of butter, six ounces of sugar, and half a pound of flour, with the yolks of the three eggs. The butter was beaten to a cream and then the sugar and eggs added, the flour sifted in, a table-spoonful of wine put in, and when all was well mixed a few drops of extract of rose was added, Molly tasting the paste to judge the quantity. It needed to be perceptible, as it goes off in baking. Then she rolled it into little balls about the size of a hickory nut, and on some stuck half a blanched almond, on others a little bit of green citron, and on others a strip of candied lemon peel.

Rolling them thus was much less trouble than cutting them into rings and shaping them in sugar, and quite as sightly, for the balls melt down in the oven into round cakes. They require a moderate oven; if too slow they melt too much, if too quick they burn before they are done.

To keep the oven just right this morning when a steady, moderate heat was required, Molly attended to the fire herself. Having seen that it was solid at first, she kept it so by adding a very few coals before it had shown any signs of going down. As soon as the jumbles were firm and the bright yellow had changed to the palest pine color, they were taken out, without waiting for them to brown at all.

The Genoese pastry was now done; it looked like a thick jelly-cake, and when cool was to be cut and jelly laid between it sandwich-fashion, and some pieces iced plain.

When the macaroons were taken off the papers, there were found to be between seventy and eighty, but as in two pans there were two or three that had sunken somewhat and were less handsome than the rest, those were laid aside. There were also nearly four dozen jumbles, and there would be about three dozen tablettes from the Genoese pastry.

It was getting near luncheon time and they were both rather tired; therefore they gave up till after they had eaten and rested.

“I hope, Molly, you take care of yourself in this way,” said her friend as they sat down to a comfortable lunch. “I remember how you used to horrify me in London by going without food for hours, or only eating cake or pastry, if you had anything on hand to interest you.”

“Yes, nowadays I do, whether I feel hungry or not: I sit down and force myself to eat, and I do it leisurely also, for if I finish eating in ten minutes I take a book or newspaper and spend the full hour resting, then I go to work fresh again; although I confess I do it often in spite of my nerves, which urge me to finish. But I do it, and I know that eating nothing at all or a mere snack in a hurry, at noon, and then keeping on with the sewing, or preserving, or shopping, is what wears out half us American women. I used to get tired and faint about three o’clock, after doing very little, and was almost ashamed that I, a healthy young girl, should do so when I saw elderly women keep on from morning till night. You and your mother first awakened me to the fact that it was lack of food. My own dear mother had been like myself all her life, neglecting her noon meal, simply because she never felt hungry. Now I get a meal of some substantial kind, and I make Marta do the same, for she also is inclined to take a standing lunch,—just a bit of bread and cheese, she likes best.”

“Well, I don’t believe people can work well if they do not eat sensibly. I can eat three meals comfortably, but I agree with Dr. Richardson: we could do without both the others better than the mid-day meal. I suppose if you and I had kept on for a couple of hours longer we should have been a pair of wilted beings.”

“Yes, there is nothing like leaving off and resting before one is really tired, if one wants to get through a great deal without feeling it; but it is a very difficult thing to do.”

“I know it; especially difficult to those who need it most,—the nervous, energetic women; to the phlegmatic ones it comes easy enough, and they seldom overwork.”

“I have eaten the last of your ‘weal and hammer,’ my dear, and I agree with Silas Wegg: ‘it mellars the organ,’—and now I am ready for work. The next thing is to ice those cakes, I suppose, and I will put on the sugar to boil.”

“No, I have French icing ready, but I forgot until this minute to make some coloring; I bought the cochineal yesterday.”

“Well, there’s plenty of time; it will only take a few minutes; I’ll put it to boil and we will both get the Genoese cakes ready while it does so.”

Molly handed to her a packet containing an ounce of cochineal and one of cream of tartar, mixed; this was put to boil in half a pint of water, and was to reduce to half. While this was going on Molly got out some raspberry jam and the lemon paste she had made.

“I wonder what I should have done if these good things had not come so apropos!”—alluding to her mother-in-law’s gift.

“Done, my dear? You would not have felt the lack of them; you would just have made your jumbles and some cocoanut macaroons and cones; made some sponge drop-cakes, which you would have iced, and would have forgotten to wish even that you had not the other things; I know you, Molly.”

Molly laughed. “To tell the truth, I had thought the matter over, and decided to make some orange paste, for which I have a very old recipe, and as two oranges are enough, it would not have been very costly.”

“Before I go away I want to try it, if oranges are to be got yet, out here.”

“I saw a few pale things, but Harry can bring some early Floridas.”

As they talked they worked. The bread-board was put between them, and the Genoese cake was split carefully into four even layers. The rounded sides were trimmed off wide enough to cut into odd-shaped pieces to be dipped into icing.

The cochineal had now boiled fast about ten minutes uncovered, and by the rim round the little saucepan showed it had diminished to one-half.

“Now if one can avoid getting one’s fingers in it, and looking like an executioner for a day or two, it will be very nice; where’s the alum, Molly?”

Molly handed the tiny packet containing two drachms of alum to Mrs. Welles. It was put into the cochineal, stirred, and then a small strainer was put on a cup, a piece of muslin laid in it, and the coloring poured through it; then the ends of the muslin were gathered together and the sediment gently pressed with a spoon and then thrown away.

Molly, meanwhile, had been spreading one of the layers of cake with the lemon paste, very thinly, and laid another on top of it,—this was one cake; the other layer was spread with raspberry jam, and on that also a slice was laid. I have said that the rounded sides were cut off, leaving the centre square. These sides were cut into three-cornered pieces; there were, consequently, a number of these corner pieces, and two square cakes,—one with raspberry jam, one with lemon. Molly had brought out the French or fondant icing, the vanilla flavoring, the bitter almond, and the caramel coloring. She divided the icing, putting one part into a small bowl which she set in a saucepan of boiling water, stirring it till it was creamy. Mrs. Welles had laid a sheet of confectioner’s paper on the board, and when the icing was melted, Molly brought it to the table and put to it a very small half tea-spoonful of vanilla, and stirred it; then she dipped a table-spoon in the boiling water, shook the water from it and then took it full of the icing from the bowl and poured it on the layers of cake containing the lemon, and spread it, using more icing as she needed it, smoothing it with a knife dipped into boiling water and shaken.

When it was done, Mrs. Welles warmed a knife and cut the cake into neat tablettes an inch wide and two inches long, while Molly put the same icing over the fire, stirred it slowly till the water under it was boiling, and the icing creamy. She took it to the table, colored it a beautiful creamy coffee color with a few drops of caramel, and then dropped the corner pieces, one by one, as fast as she could, into it, taking them out as soon as they were covered, and laying them on the waxed paper with a fork. Before half were done the icing got stiff, and she had to put it on the fire once more; and this time, as each heating up made the icing a degree higher candy, she put in a few drops of water from the end of a spoon,—a dozen drops perhaps in all,—then the icing became creamy again. She finished dipping the cakes, all but three or four, for which the icing fell short. Now the other portion of icing was put in a bowl, melted to cream in boiling water, a few drops of cochineal added to it, and a few drops (very few) of almond flavoring. The cochineal made it a beautiful pale pink. This was laid on the tablette of cake in which was raspberry jam, in the same way as the white, and it also was cut into tablettes while Molly dipped the rest of her three-cornered pieces of cake into the pink icing.

There was now a plate of pink, almond-iced tablettes with raspberry jam; one of white, vanilla-iced tablettes with lemon filling, and on the sheet of waxed paper lay several that looked like large, oblong, French candies, pink and pale coffee-colored,—being completely covered with icing, no one could tell they were cake.

“Now the cakes are all made, are they not?” asked Mrs. Welles.

“Yes; but I’m sadly afraid people will think they have cost much more than is usually spent at these meetings; but I know they have not. Mrs. Framley had sponge cake only, yet the eggs alone for the five loaves she made would cost more than these cakes.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mrs. Welles.

“No,” laughed Molly; “I meant only to have the iced jelly cakes, and though Genoese is so delicious I don’t know that that difference will be understood, but your bringing the almond paste tempted me into the macaroons, and then to make use of the yolks; of course they led to the jumbles.”

“Yes, but they would pass; it is the ‘Frenchy’ look of the iced cakes that will seem costly, but you can tell your friends what the cost really is.”

“I know, only I hate to seem to lay myself out; yet when things can be made so pretty one can’t resist doing it.”

“You can’t, because you love the work as others love Kensington stitch and can’t resist adding to the beauty of their surroundings in that way. You and I resist that temptation very well, but this makes one understand it. All work is pleasure if you love it and know how to do it.”

“Now I’ll see the dinner on and we’ll adjourn and leave Marta in possession,” said Molly.

Molly looked at the bouillon, which had been simmering four hours; and Marta asked if she should put in the vegetables.

“No; this is to be extra strong, in fact consommé,—which means bouillon very much reduced,—so this can simmer two hours more; then strain the meat from it, and to-morrow you can take off all fat; and then put to it two carrots cut up small, two turnips, two onions, and let them boil in it two hours; this will reduce it enough; then it can be strained and cleared.”

Molly had arranged to have for dinner just such things as Marta could cook, but the substantial part of it was to be Irish stew, that good old savory dish. Excellent as it is when well made, there is nothing more “poverty seeming” than the same thing carelessly done; therefore she meant to see it all on to cook before leaving the kitchen.

Irish Stew.—Half a dozen lean chops from the neck were floured and put in a saucepan with two onions and a tea-spoonful of butter, and quickly browned; but the onion was not allowed to burn, and therefore it was all kept moving about. A pint of cold water was then put to it, and the fat that this brought to the surface skimmed off and a tea-spoonful of salt and one third of a tea-spoonful of pepper added. It was put where it would simmer very gently for an hour and a half, when it was to be again skimmed, and a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce put to it; the gravy tasted to see if salt enough, and half a dozen large potatoes (or more if small) cut in half; then it was to be closely covered and was to simmer for another hour. Molly cautioned Marta against adding more water.

“When you put the potatoes in, never mind if the gravy does not cover them; they are to stew over the meat; sufficient good gravy to serve is all that is necessary, if you cover the potatoes with liquid as often is done, you get a good deal of broth, but no gravy.”

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CHAPTER XXXVI.
TO BOIL AND PREPARE LOBSTER—SANDWICHES—CLEARING SOUP—OMELET SOUFFLÉ.

The next morning the lobster which Molly had ordered was sent; it was quite a large one, and it was put on head downward into boiling water in which there were four table-spoonfuls of salt to the gallon. Marta was told to let it boil gently half an hour, then to take it out, as if it boils too long the meat becomes tough and stringy; but, although Marta had that order and Molly left the kitchen to go through her usual morning duties up-stairs, Mrs. Welles noticed that when the half hour was up Molly herself went to see that Marta had not forgotten.

“My dear Molly, a Marta would be the death of me, or I of her, if I had one.”

“Why?”

“She requires such endless looking after. Why don’t you get a more experienced girl?”

“Because perhaps the experienced girl would be the ‘death of me.’ I mean it is unlikely the experience would exactly fit my needs, and if it did not, it would be in the way of her learning my ways.”

“Does Marta learn?”

“Indeed she does—slowly; but remember, she is so newly arrived.”

“Oh, it is not her accomplishments I disparage, but that you cannot trust her to carry out such a simple order as to take a thing out of water at a certain time. What made you give the order if you did not expect to have it remembered?”

“Moral effect, I suppose,” laughed Molly. “I always pretend to leave things to Marta, but as a matter of fact, it was the very simplicity of this thing that made me careful; Marta is impressed, I find, with large appearances; if I tell her to do something that is to have some very choice result, although I expect her to blunder, she generally surprises me by carrying out the order well, because she is impressed, and all her attention on the alert. She can do three or four things now she is proud of; one is frying, because she has completely mastered the art, and the results are so showy; then she has lived in Germany as scullion, where she has heard fine cooking spoken of with respect, and knows it is worth doing well. The difficulty lies generally in the fact that half our servants don’t know that there is such a thing as standard cooking; anything beyond their ken is ‘new-fangled,’ and is a mystery not worth knowing.”

“Well, well, I admire your patience; I never could emulate it.”

“Oh, yes, you would, if it were only necessary; but with you it is not; you have several servants, and can import your cooks specially trained.”

“Molly, I could do without servants easily; I would, rather than watch and follow as you do Marta.”

“We’ll talk over this another time. I’m sure you would not, for long, like to do without a pair of willing, if clumsy hands; a dirty servant, I grant, you are better without,—but I must go down.”

“And I too. What shall I do?”

“Make mayonnaise for the sandwiches.

“Put on the soup, Marta, and the vegetables in it as I told you yesterday.”

The lobster was now cool, and Molly began to prepare it. She took off the claws, split it down the back, then called Marta to watch as she removed the entrail that runs through the tail. “In the head is found a small bladder or bag which must be taken out; it is sometimes called the ‘lady;’ and along each side, under the shell, will be found bits of a drab-colored spongy substance called the ‘lady’s fingers;’ they are at the root of the small claws; when these are removed, all the rest of the lobster is good. This soft, greenish fat might seem to you should be thrown away, but it is, many think, the best part of the lobster.”

The claws were then cracked and the meat taken out. Molly then made a pint of white sauce and divided it into two parts. Into one she put the meat of the lobster chopped fine, and seasoned it very highly with pepper and salt, and enough lemon juice to give a perceptible acid or piquant taste, and two tea-spoonfuls of very finely chopped pickled cucumber.

To the other sauce she stirred the contents of a box of chicken also chopped fine, and a large table-spoonful of the mayonnaise, which was made rather more tart than usual, and this also was seasoned highly and a tea-spoonful of capers stirred through it. Both the lobster and chicken were put away till time to cut sandwiches.

The dinner was to be oysters on the half shell and stewed steak, as being easy and British.

The recipe was given to Marta, who, with a little looking after, could prepare it. It was as follows:—

Put a table-spoonful of butter in a stew-pan; when hot lay in a pound and a half of the tender side of round steak floured, having removed nearly all fat. Let it quickly brown with one onion, cut in slices; then put to it a pint of boiling water. Draw it to the side of the fire, where it will just simmer for two hours and a half; then take the meat up on a hot dish, and skim the gravy clear of fat; stir into it a dessert-spoonful of brown thickening (see recipe, [Chapter XIII].), and a half can of mushrooms, with the liquor. Let this boil fast till there is about half a pint; season with pepper and salt, take off the little skin of grease that fast boiling has sent to the surface, draw it back from the fire, and lay the steak in again; let it all just keep at the boiling-point, not boil, for a quarter of an hour.

Harry was to come home at five to get dinner over, and by way of a sweet dish they were to have omelette soufflé, or as Harry called it, hot ice cream; it was quickly made and required no sauce. After luncheon, as there was nothing more to be done till the consommé was ready to clear, Molly and her friend went out to walk. At half a mile distance there was a spot where Molly had remarked the lovely ferns and moss; they took a basket to bring some home to dress the rooms, and as there were few flowers, they gathered the white plumes of the wild carrot.

“I think we will resist the golden-rod, graceful as it is; every room in Greenfield has a bunch of it, no doubt.”

When in the house two ginger-jars were filled with the ferns and tall white blossoms; from one, long sprays of honeysuckle from their own piazza were trailing, and this was put on the little stand in the hall. The other jar was put in the fireplace in the parlor. About the rooms tufts of bright red geraniums were set in specimen glasses.

“I think that looks quite festive,” said Mrs. Welles, surveying the effect. “Will you have autumn leaves for the buffet?”

“I confess I don’t like them in rooms, beautiful as they are on trees; I thought of filling those tall jars with these ferns and putting single sprays of them in tall champagne glasses between the dishes of sandwiches.”

“That will be prettier.”

Molly had decided, as Marta would be a shy and possibly awkward waitress, to have everything except soup and coffee arranged prettily on the sideboard, and every gentleman could help himself and a lady. The coffee and consommé would be sent round, and a small table had a tea-equipage arranged on it. Mrs. Welles would steer Marta to safety, when she should start with the waiter. It was a matter for discussion whether Marta should be called upon at all, and she was admitted to service simply as a pleasure to herself; Molly knew she would be greatly disappointed if she were not allowed to take some active part in the proceedings.

“You are a curious girl, Molly,” Mrs. Welles had said when she heard Molly’s reason. “It would not have occurred to me.”

“Nor to me, perhaps, if I had not remembered that this girl has no acquaintances about here, and to the festive German nature to sit in a quiet kitchen, and hear voices and laughter, must be infinitely more dull than making herself useful and seeing the faces of those who laugh and talk. I can see she is quite excited by the thought of numbers of people.”

The sideboard was moved into the pantry off the dining-room; two Albert biscuit boxes were put, one at each end of it, a small board (one of a set of hanging book-shelves removed for the occasion) was placed on them and then covered with a fine white napkin; at each end a vase of ferns, and along it, disposed so that the colors would show to best advantage, were the iced cakes and macaroons. On the sideboard itself another long white napkin was laid, and here were to be the dishes of sandwiches; the arrangement of this beforehand freed Molly from anxiety, and when the door of the pantry was closed it was not seen; yet with it open the sideboard was so placed that it and nothing else was visible from the room. A bracket lamp was to be fastened so as to light it up as much as the interior of the dining-room. When the arrangements were all made, Mrs. Welles and Molly repaired to the kitchen. The dinner was quietly cooking and Marta had just got through her work.

“I will clear the soup first, because I want you to see it, Marta.” Molly took the two whites of eggs and their shells left from the mayonnaise and two more; then she beat up shells and all to a froth, mixed a small cup of the cold soup with them, and poured the whole into the soup, beating all the while till it was at boiling-point again; then she drew it back from the fire and left it ten minutes. While it settled, she put a large mixing-bowl on the table, and a colander in that; then an old napkin, that she had dipped into boiling water and wrung out, was laid over the colander. In ten minutes the egg was hanging in the soup like white curds and the soup itself looked quite clear.

It was poured through the cloth and allowed to drip. Molly lifted the colander, and when the soup had run through removed it without squeezing. The soup lay in the bowl like clear weak tea. Molly added a few drops of caramel (see [Chapter XIII].), and then tasted it for seasoning. The caramel only made it a shade darker than it was, just a bright straw color. The boiling with the vegetables had reduced it to about five quarts. Intending it to be so reduced had caused Molly to omit part of the salt; if salted for eight quarts and reduced to five it would be too salt to use, as salt never evaporates.

The soup was now put into a marbleized preserving-pan, which would give no more taste than a china bowl, and be ready to boil up when required.

Mrs. Welles had, meanwhile, been cutting sandwiches, and already had quite a pile of thin slices of bread, which Molly now spread thinly with mayonnaise. When two loaves were cut up, Mrs. Welles put a thin layer of the chicken mixture on some of the slices Molly had spread with mayonnaise; then put another slice over it, and when a good many were done, the crust was cut off all round and each slice cut from corner to corner, thus making four little three-cornered sandwiches. When there were enough of these done, they treated the lobster in the same way, and when all were cut and arranged on dishes a damp cloth was laid over them, and they were put in a cool place till just before they were needed. Everything was now ready. Mrs. Winfield’s reserve cups and saucers had all been got out and dusted; Mrs. Lennox had sent over a dozen. These were put in readiness, with piles of small plates, napkins, etc., on a large tray to be brought in and placed by the sideboard when the time came.

Omelet Soufflé.—Molly beat four whites of eggs till they would not slip from the bowl, just before dinner, and then the yolks of two she beat four minutes with three table-spoonfuls of powdered sugar and one tea-spoonful of vanilla extract.

When Marta was ready to put the dinner on the table, Molly turned the whites of the eggs on the yolks, and mixed them very gently, lifting the yolks as it were over the whites with the spoon, not stirring them; any quick movement with whites of eggs tends to liquefy them; then she buttered an oval dish and heaped the mixture lightly on it, a table-spoonful at a time, piling always towards the middle; then she sifted powdered sugar over it, and just before she went in to dinner she put it in the oven, which was moderately hot.

“It will take about ten minutes to get a golden brown, Marta, and when you look at it be careful not to fully open the door, for the least draught may cause it to fall; and when it is nicely brown bring it in without waiting for anything. I will have the table ready for you.”

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CHAPTER XXXVII.
GÂTEAU DE RIZ—FRENCH RICE CAKE—PREPARING CALF’S HEAD—MOCK-TURTLE SOUP—MORE NOODLES—PIGEON PIE.

Of course Molly’s supper was a success, and of course there were many who thought it must have cost a great deal more than the amount usually expended; but when there was a comparison of expenses there was nothing to be said, for Molly was well within the lowest, and then every one wanted to know how it was done, and especially how the sandwiches were made, such a pleasant change were they from the usual thing, good as it is. Molly was not experienced in quantities needed, and had feared something might fall short, but there were both consommé and cakes left.

“Shall we have to live on ‘stale party’ the rest of the week, Molly?” Harry had asked.

“You’ll have ‘stale party’ soup a couple of times, but no other reminiscence shall be served up.”

And to give Marta an opportunity of showing her way of making noodles to Mrs. Welles, Molly decided to have noodle soup and roast beef for dinner.

They all three set to work to remove the traces of the night before. While Marta swept, Molly and her friend washed up dishes and returned them to their places. When all was done, Molly said, “What can I make with the spare yolks of eggs from yesterday?”

“How many are there?”

“Four,—two from the omelette soufflé and two from clearing the soup.”

“Then make a French rice cake for dinner.”

“You make it, for I don’t know how. And now you are here, I want to cook a calf’s head. You are fond of it, I know, and one is too much for us alone; besides, there are so many English ways of cooking it. I only know one.”

“Get the head, and I will show you half a dozen dishes from it. Do you want mock-turtle soup?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then we will use half for that purpose, and the other we will do various things with.”

Molly had already ordered her butcher to get one for her one day this week. He had sent word it would be ready this morning, and she was expecting it.

Calf’s head, although a fashionable dish, either as mock-turtle or any of the several ways in which it is served, is, like some other things with an awe-inspiring name, a very economical one, especially in country places, where calves’ heads have few buyers. For this reason Molly wanted to perfect herself in preparing it. By the time Mrs. Welles had put a small cup of rice on to boil in a pint and a half of milk, the head came. She watched the rice come to the boil, then put it where it would simmer slowly, and turned her attention to the head. It was a very good one, for Molly had said if it were not fat she would not care to have it. She had also directed it to be split. He had asked her if she wanted it skinned.

“No, indeed; only scalded and the hair scraped off.”

“I only asked, because some folks like them skinned.”

Molly was relating this to Mrs. Welles and preparing her to see the head either skinned in spite of her order, or else sent with the hair half on when it came, but it was really very well dressed.

“I’m going to let you prepare it, Charlotte, and look on, for I have only seen it done once at a cooking-demonstration.”

“Very well, you attend to the rice, then, and keep it from burning. It must stew slowly, with the cover tight on it, till it will mash into a paste, and more milk added if required.”

Mrs. Welles laid the head open on a meat-board, and then removed the tongue and brains, being very careful not to injure them. She laid them in a dish of water, in which was a small cup of vinegar, until they were needed for use; then she took out the membrane of the nasal passages and washed the head in salt and water. This done, she put the head in a pot and covered it with six quarts of cold water. It was to boil very slowly two hours. Into the water she put a large carrot, a turnip, and an onion, with six sprigs of parsley, two bay leaves, half a tea-spoonful of marjoram and the same of thyme (these herbs were tied up in a bit of muslin), and a small table-spoonful of salt, with half a tea-spoonful of pepper.

By the time this was done the rice was cooked thoroughly, and it was as stiff as could be stirred and turned out into a bowl, when it was sweetened, a tiny pinch of salt put into it, a large tea-spoonful of vanilla extract, and the grated rind of a lemon; and when a little cool, the beaten yolks of eggs, and all was stirred together. It was now about the consistence of stiff mush. A square shallow pan was thickly buttered, and strewed with bread crumbs, and the rice put into it. The pan used was a small-sized dripping-pan, and the rice formed a layer an inch and a half deep. It was made very smooth over the top, and then a little butter was oiled and poured on it; the pan was then so moved that the butter ran over the rice in every direction; sugar was then sifted all over it a quarter of an inch deep, and the whole was put in the oven to bake till a fine brown.

“If you want that to be extra fine, Molly, at any time, chop a cup of almonds quite fine, and strew them over with the sugar. When it is baked, let it get cold in the pan, then turn it out and cut it into strips or tablets an inch broad and two or three in length. They should be put on a dish in the ice-box before serving, to be ice cold.”

When the calf’s head had been boiling very slowly two hours, it was taken carefully from the water and one half of it was laid aside; the other half was to be for dinner. This was wiped, the inside bones carefully taken out, and it was closely scored through the outer skin; then it was washed over with a beaten egg and thickly covered with fine bread crumbs, in a cup of which half a tea-spoonful of salt, half a salt-spoonful of pepper, a tea-spoonful of finely-chopped parsley, and the third of one of thyme or savory, had been thoroughly mixed. This was to be basted with butter melted in a cup until all the crumbs were moistened, and then baked till brown. If the crumbed surface looked dry in the oven, it must be again basted. This was to be garnished with little rolls of bacon, made by cutting thinnest slices, trimmed from rind and smoke, rolled round the finger, and laid on a tin in a quick oven till clear and crisp, but not overdone.

Mrs. Welles got everything ready early, put the half head on the dish ready to go into the oven at five o’clock, cut the bacon, and told Molly what the gravy was to be, so that she might make it while she herself went on with mock-turtle soup, which was for next day’s (Sunday) dinner.

“You can have almost any sauce; English sauce piquante is very nice, or brown mushroom sauce.”

“What is English sauce piquante?”

“I call it so, although the old-fashioned name for it is Wow Wow sauce.”

“Let’s try it, if you like it.”

“I do. This is the recipe: Chop fine a dessert-spoonful of capers, the same of parsley, and one large pickled walnut or two small. Put a table-spoonful of flour and one of butter to get brown together in a saucepan; put to them, stirring all the time, half a pint of stock or the broth you have—that in which the head was boiled will do; when it boils, mix a tea-spoonful of dry mustard with a table-spoonful of wine, half one of vinegar, and a tea-spoonful of red currant or cranberry jelly, and one of Worcestershire sauce. Let all simmer till of a creamy thickness, season to taste, and last add the capers and pickles. It is a convenient sauce, because you can vary the flavor as you like, putting pickled cucumber instead of walnut or capers, any other store sauce instead of Worcestershire, and cider in place of wine, and if you have no jelly, a lump of sugar. The characteristic of the sauce is to be a very little sour, a very little sweet, and a little hot, with an agreeable flavor beside.”

The bones that had been taken from the part of the head that was to bake were put back in the pot, the meat was cut from the other half in neat pieces and laid between two dishes to keep it flat, and all the liquor that ran from it, with the rest of the bones, was put back to boil with the liquor till it was reduced to three quarts.

“Now, Molly, as it is impossible to tell how strong or weak dried herbs are, and mock-turtle is a highly flavored soup, I am going to adopt the plan of making essence of the herbs and use just enough.”

So saying, she put into a little saucepan two tea-spoonfuls of chopped parsley, three quarters of one of marjoram, three quarters of one of savory and the same of lemon thyme, and a bay leaf and a half.

“Now I’ll put these to boil, closely covered, in half a pint of water for twenty minutes, then squeeze out as much of the goodness as I can, and add this herb juice to the soup, little by little, till we get the right flavor.”

As the soup was more than sufficient to serve for two dinners, it was decided to flavor it all, then divide it, and have one half thick mock-turtle, the other clear. The thick was for Sunday’s dinner, as Mr. Welles, who was coming to dinner, was particularly fond of it. While the soup was boiling down Mrs. Welles prepared egg balls to serve with it, Molly made some rough puff paste (see [Chapter VI].) for pigeon pie, and when that was done Marta was ready to make noodles.

The egg balls were made as follows: Two eggs boiled hard, the yolks pounded with a half tea-spoonful of finely chopped parsley, half a salt-spoonful of salt, a scant quarter one of white pepper, made into stiff paste with raw yolk of egg, and moulded into balls, size of marbles. Each ball was rolled in white of egg beaten a little; when well coated they were dipped in flour and dropped into boiling water for two minutes. These were part to be served in the thick soup next day, the rest left for the clear mock-turtle.

Marta used one egg for the noodles, a pinch of salt, and flour enough to make part of it into a smooth paste about as large as a small egg; this she worked smooth and laid aside; to the rest she added more flour, and did not work into a smooth paste, but into a rough, crumbly sort of ball; this, she explained, was for the quickest made and most generally used noodles, in the part of Germany she came from. She took a coarse grater and grated the rough ball into coarse crumbs that looked like yellow tapioca; these could be dried carefully in a very cool oven, and used whenever wanted. Then she took the smooth ball she had made, and asked Molly whether she would like her to make the ribbon noodles as before (see recipe, [Chapter XXV].), or another sort.

“Oh, another, by all means!”

She then grated on the smooth ball of paste just a suspicion of nutmeg, put the least bit of butter on her hand,—a bit as large as a small hazel nut,—and rolled the ball and worked it over till the nutmeg and butter were in it; then she cut the paste into pieces as large as a hazel nut, made each into olive shapes, and they were finished.

“Thank you, Marta, we will have those in our soup to-night. I think I remember eating them in Germany.”

Molly had already prepared a pair of pigeons. She now put on to stew very slowly, with half a pint of water, a pound of juicy round steak, for the pigeon pie, which she intended to make next day. When the steak had simmered an hour and a half, it was taken up and put away. The calf’s tongue was parboiled, to be used on Monday.

The next morning Molly made the pie directly after breakfast. Laying the steak, cut into finger-lengths, at the bottom of a deep oval dish, the birds were divided into halves, and both steak and pigeons seasoned highly with pepper and salt. The birds were laid over the steak, placing them so that the pie would be dome-shaped when covered; two eggs were hard boiled and cut in four and the pieces laid among the meat; then a small half cup of water was poured in; the gravy from the steak was left to pour in hot when the pie was cooked. The pie was then finished in the same way as the veal and ham pie (see recipe [Chapter XXXII].), except that the feet of the two birds were put in boiling water for a moment, the skin rubbed off them, leaving them a bright crimson, and a slit was made at each end of the groove that went round the pie, and two of the little feet put in each, the claws outwards.

Mrs. Welles gave Marta the pieces of calf’s head that were to go into the soup, told her to put them in half an hour before dinner, let them simmer, and just before serving she was to put into the quart, which was all that was to be made hot, a table-spoonful of brown thickening, a glass of wine, and the juice of half a lemon, with half the egg balls. The pigeon pie would need an hour to bake, and was to be kept in a very cold place until twelve.

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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ONE MORE USE FOR SOUP MEAT—STEWED CALF’S TONGUE—BRAINS, AU BEURRE NOIR (BROWN BUTTER)—CALF’S HEAD—HOLLANDAISE SAUCE—CALF’S HEAD EN TORTUE.

“Molly, what are you going to do with all that beef from consommé?” asked Mrs. Welles, on the Monday after the reception.

“I have usually made hash of it and given it to a family who need all the help they can get; but there is so much, I am inclined to try an experiment. Would not part do to make an imitation of that mock brawn that is so good in London? What is the recipe?”

“That is made with new beef and pork, but if the jelly can be supplied, it would be very nice and savory treated exactly as if it were new meat.”

“So I thought, and I got from the butcher the day I bought the beef two hocks of pork. It’s early for pork, but he assured me this was killed right on a farm here, and I could see it was really good, although I must say I think November early enough, as a rule, for pork.”

“It’s a little different when you buy it in that way. What are you going to do with the feet, or ‘hocks’ as you call them?”

“They have been cleaned and laid in salt; to-morrow they will be salt enough. I think of boiling them till the bones slip out, cutting the flesh in small bits, and putting the bones back into the water and boiling till there is no more goodness in them; but as the beef is over-cooked, I don’t want the pork to be so; then strain the liquor, which will be solid jelly when cold. I think two quarts and a pint of water may be put on the hocks,—that will leave rather less than two quarts when boiled slowly for three hours with the lid on,—then I shall choose the firmest pieces of the beef, cut them into large dice, and put them into the liquor with the pork; but I want you to give me the seasoning of the regular recipe, if you brought it.”

“Yes; as you wrote you wanted some English pickling and curing recipes, I brought my little book; but I advise you to remember the difference in climate.”

“Yes, I do; but I know a family who have the most delicious bacon and ham, and they use old country recipes in curing.”

“Very well, then, I came supplied.” She took from her pocket a note-book. “The seasoning for mock brawn is as follows: Two tea-spoonfuls of salt, one of ground allspice, one of black pepper, one of sugar, half a tea-spoonful of marjoram dried and rubbed fine, half one of thyme.”

“I think I’ll use sage instead of thyme, and I fancy it will prove a very savory dish to eat cold.”

Of the calf’s head there was still the tongue, the brains, nearly two quarts of clear mock-turtle soup, a small platter of the pieces of the head boiled, and some of the baked head.

“It’s rather an absurd joint to buy for such a small family as ours, unless one is prepared to eat it in every form for three days.”

“Well, it will keep a few days, but the brains and tongue must be used soon, as they spoil easily. Suppose you have stewed tongue for dinner to-day, with brains and brown butter? The rest of the head and soup can be left for a day or two this weather, and I will prepare them at once.”

They went to the kitchen together, and Mrs. Welles began by taking the skin off the tongue, which had been parboiled on Saturday; then she trimmed it neatly and cut little strips of salt pork, parallel with the rind, as thick as a match, and larded it; then she put into a small stone pot that had a cover two slices of fat pork, a tea-spoonful of chopped parsley, half an onion, a bay leaf, a salt-spoonful of salt, half one of pepper, and half a tea-spoonful of thyme. She sprinkled the tongue with salt and pepper, laid it in the jar, and round it cut a carrot in slices; over this she poured a cup of soup and covered it close. It was to bake three hours and a half. When done it was to be taken up and the gravy strained and skimmed; the tongue was to be laid in a dish, with green peas round it, and the gravy poured over it.

She also cleaned the calf’s brains, carefully removing all the slime and fibrous skin, but without breaking them; then she told Marta to put them, half an hour before dinner, into well-salted water in which was a small bunch of parsley and a bay leaf, to boil for twenty minutes; then she was to have ready some fried circles of bread, the size of a tea-cup and half an inch thick. (See frying, [Chapter IV].) When the brains were done they were to be taken up and divided, and a neat piece put on each round of bread, and on the centre of each a small piece of pickled gherkin or red beet, and then they were to have poured over them brown butter, made as follows: One table-spoonful of butter melted in a little saucepan till it was a pale brown (not the least burnt), then a tea-spoonful of lemon juice and the same of finely chopped parsley was to be put in it. She warned her if the butter should get the least bit too dark it would be spoilt, and it would darken even in carrying from the range to the table, therefore to remove it as soon as the color began to change.

The following were the ways in which the remains of the head were disposed of. Though Molly was tired of it by the time it was gone, Harry was not, and she could not but recommend it to Mrs. Lennox as an economical dish to have for a large family, provided she bought only a large fleshy head; a bony one is not worth the trouble of cooking.

The pieces already boiled in the soup made two small entrées for Wednesday and Thursday; the first was simply some pieces simmered half an hour in a very little of the soup, then taken up and a Hollandaise sauce poured over it. (See recipe, [Chapter XXIX].) The second was the quite celebrated one.

Calf’s Head en Tortue, made as follows: A table-spoonful of butter was melted in a saucepan, a table-spoonful of flour mixed with it and allowed to bubble; then a cup of the clear soup reserved for the purpose was put to it and stirred, to make a thick, smooth sauce; the juice of a large tomato (Molly used a little pulp of canned tomato, as the season was over) was strained to it, and the liquor from half a can of mushrooms and a dozen of the mushrooms; the pieces of meat were laid in this sauce and stewed for twenty minutes very gently, with great care that they might not burn. While this was cooking, a small saucepan was put on, half full of fat, and made very hot; then one egg for each person was broken into separate cups; these were dropped one at a time into the smoking fat, just as if it were water, and they were to be poached; one minute was enough to brown each one, and only one was done at a time, or while one was taken out the other would harden in the intense heat of the fat. The eggs were perfectly round and brown. They were laid round the dish of meat, and between them tiny green gherkins.

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CHAPTER XXXIX.
IDEAS AND SUGGESTIONS ON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.

Mrs. Lennox came in to call on Mrs. Welles later the same day. Her Maggie had been with her now several days, and she could judge how far she was likely to be of use to her. Molly had been anxious to know the result of the experiment, for she felt deeply interested in her neighbor, and that if Maggie should prove more a trial than comfort she might perhaps have contributed by her advice to that result. After a little conversation about Mrs. Welles’s visit and her long acquaintance with Molly, the latter asked how she got on with the new inmate.

“For the first three or four days it seemed a failure, but I am hopeful now of better things; she is strong, seems willing, and I think is trying to do. At all events I almost think if she never gets beyond the point of washing dishes, taking up ashes, making fires, preparing vegetables and washing I shall be the gainer, for that drudgery left me no time for the lighter work to be properly done.”

“Oh, but if she does those things willingly, and as you tell her, she will not stop there, I think; Mrs. Framley was speaking of her sister, and says she is of thoroughly good stock, and that is a great deal. The good-for-nothing girls one meets with usually come from thriftless stock.”

“Well, I’m going to hope for the best, and as I’m not expecting too many of the cardinal virtues for a few dollars a month, perhaps I may not be disappointed; and now, my dear Mrs. Bishop, I am going to ask you to give me a few recipes of economical dishes for a family like ours. Until I talked with you, I only knew of pot-pie and Irish stew, both badly made, and though I have a cookery-book which you tell me is excellent, I never made anything come quite right out of it.”

“In justice to the cooking-book, and indeed to latter day cooking-books in general, I think, perhaps, if you’ll forgive me, that may have been because you did not know enough of the elements of cooking.”

“I certainly did not, and although I know little now, I feel so very much wiser than I did a month ago that I look back in wonder. There’s another reason why I could not use my cookery-book,—it always wanted something I had not in the house by way of flavoring; then I shut up the book and cooked in my own old way.”

“One of your American worthies, ‘Josiah Allen’s wife,’ I think, says: ‘It’s the flavorin’ as does it,’” said Mrs. Welles; “and I think fifty cents expended in flavorings a very good investment, from an economical point of view.”

“Yes, if one lives in New York one can buy all sorts of sweet herbs, and dry them. At the same time I don’t think Mr. Lennox likes them.”

“I have known many people who thought they did not like them because they had never had them properly used, or at least when properly used they enjoyed the dish without knowing that it contained herbs at all; in the same way I have known people who used Worcestershire sauce in everything, and who would even ruin clear soup by pouring it in, vow and protest they could never touch anything that had the faintest suspicion of garlic; Worcestershire sauce has more than a suspicion of garlic. I know others who will eat no pickles but Crosse & Blackwell’s, which likewise owe the subtle difference between them and all others equally to the effect of garlic; so carefully used however that only by making pickles with and without that suspicion of the malodorous herb can you see why many other pickles lack ‘just something.’”

“Well—I’m willing to be instructed, so willing that if I’d time and money I would go to New York and go through a course at a cooking-school.”

“Ah! If every young wife did that, what years of work and vexation she would save herself; it is such up-hill work teaching one’s self from books; it’s like trying to play a piece of music without having learned to count time; after months, if you knew the notes, you might, by your ear, make something out of it; but think of the toil! So it is with recipes,—without the key, how can any one cook? to be told what goes into a pot, and to ‘stew it gently’ so long, and you don’t know what gentle stewing is! You are told to put your meat in the oven and bake it ‘beautifully brown,’ and you don’t know that to brown beautifully your oven must be just so hot when it goes in, and that if you have water in your pan, it will steam, not bake; and so on.”

Molly smiled; Mrs. Welles was on her hobby.

“Yes, that’s all true, and I only wish I had the first year of my married life to go over again, before a family came in the way of my doing what I would like.”

“To revert to the question of flavorings,” put in Molly. “I found all I wanted at the grocery; they put up sweet herbs of all kinds now very nicely, in paper boxes, a box of thyme leaves (be sure and get the leaves rather than the powdered herb) or marjoram leaves cost but five cents each. Now while parsley is so plentiful and cheap I shall buy ten cents’ worth and dry it for winter.”

“I did not know parsley would dry and retain its flavor.”

“It will not if done as we dry other herbs; it must be quickly done by heat; if put in a cool oven with the door open, or in a plate-warmer, it will dry in a few hours; then it can be rubbed fine and put in a tin box. I think a box of lemon thyme, one of savory, one of marjoram, one of sage, with five cents’ worth of bay leaves,—twenty cents in all,—will give you all the herb flavorings generally called for, and last a year if you like them as sparingly used as I should use them. Spices most people have, I would almost say ‘unluckily,’ remembering how sadly too much spice mars much of our American cooking; but I will give you several recipes, and if you have difficulty with them let me know. I think perhaps when the cold weather comes in we might do a little economy together.”

“How?”

“By buying meat in large quantities, beef by the quarter, mutton by the half sheep; my family is too small to make such a way of buying wise, but you have several mouths to feed, and none would go to waste.”

Mrs. Lennox looked dubious and said:

“I used to think about it. Mr. Lennox suggested he should buy a quarter of beef, as he knew some one who did so all through the winter and found it profitable, but a lady who had also tried the plan told me there was no profit in it, for there was so much waste,—so much coarse meat that she could make no use of.”

“In that case there would be no real economy, but there need be no waste, and should be none, and no one need eat coarse food. I mean, properly prepared no part of beef need be coarse; if a piece of brisket or flank were served up as a roast, or the leg broiled, that would indeed be coarse; but each cooked in its appropriate way, they would be far from being so.”

“But the fat,—there is so much of it!”

“But what more useful than beef fat, or more wholesome? It is next to butter, I think.”

“That is true; but my friend, I know, could not use it, and said she was so thankful to see the last of that beef.”

“The only objection usually urged against it, and I think a very reasonable one, is that the family must eat beef or mutton, whichever is in the house, constantly till it is gone; but I do not see even that necessity, for in cold weather the meat will keep so well that some change can be had, and then in winter, even for my small use, I would not fear to buy half a sheep; I could make it keep a month, unless the weather broke; then I would manage to preserve it; but if I had mutton and you had beef, we could certainly change sometimes; though half a sheep used during a month would not necessitate monotony, for one could have many things between.”

“What would you do with mutton fat?”

“That, I grant, is not so available; but there is less of it, and I should try it out and make soup. The actual saving is considerable, especially in mutton. It is rare to get chops under twenty cents a pound; leg fourteen, if you buy them separately, which is the frequent way, while the half sheep can be bought in Washington Market for ten or eleven cents a pound; the latter is an outside price (a butcher would buy for less) for prime mutton, while beef hind quarter would be for buyers like ourselves thirteen or fourteen cents a pound, unless there is some temporary rise in the market, when of course one need not buy; but that is the average price in New York.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Mrs. Lennox in amazement. “I mean, how do you know what the prices are now?”

Molly laughed. “In this particular instance I made special inquiry or asked Mrs. Welles to do so; but I keep pretty well up in such matters by the Saturday editions of some of the evening papers, although I usually add a couple of cents a pound to the quotations for prime meats to allow for any difference there may be. I do it, however, only from curiosity, for I could not buy my own meat so, even if my family were large, for Mr. Bishop is not experienced enough to buy and send it out.”

“Nor is Mr. Lennox, but he has a friend who has bought so for years, and who also, when game and poultry are cheap, and I believe they often are as cheap as meat, sends that home to his wife too; and Mr. Lennox enjoys going with him, and once in a while has sent us home turkeys when they have been very low in price.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write out several recipes to use up the parts of the beef that you will not broil or roast, so that you will not be forced to eat beef exclusively in order to get rid of it before it spoils. I will do the same with the mutton.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Bishop, how can I possibly trouble you so far? What can I do for you in return?”

“I know something you can easily do. Let me have part of your beef or mutton when you get it; we’ll take turns about the prime parts,—I have as much use for coarse ones sometimes; and ask Mr. Lennox once in a while when he is buying meat with his friend and game is cheap, to send me out some. In New York prairie hens and partridges are sometimes a dollar a pair; then they are cheaper than meat to those fond of them as we are. Yet Mrs. Framley says she never knew them less than two dollars a pair here. Then the writing will not be much trouble to me, for while Mrs. Welles is here I intend to get some recipes from her; the one copy will do for both of us.”

“I’m afraid I’m getting all the good of that arrangement.”

“No, it’s a case of give and take between us. You learn cooking from me, I learn something as valuable from you.”

“You are kind enough to say so.”

After Mrs. Lennox had gone, Mrs. Welles asked what Molly meant by saying she was learning something just as valuable.

“Mrs. Lennox has the best-trained children I ever knew. They are full of fun and frolic, yet cheerfully obedient to her, and as the subject is likely to interest me, I have observed them very closely, and asked her whether they were unusually amiable or whether it was due to training. She told me she did not do much training, nor were the children specially amiable; and it is true there seems less small restriction in her family than in most others where the children are ‘regular pickles.’”

“How does she manage them?”

“I hardly think she knows herself. She says she makes few rules, and those the children hardly know of; they only know there are a few things they dare not do; but I notice they never ask her for a thing twice, and that is because she says she never denied anything she knew she might be induced to grant; so they know pleading or worrying is thrown away, and four happier children you never saw. I asked her once if her babies were as good as they are when older. She said two were no trouble; her first was a restless one for the first three months and the last was sick; but she will not believe that well babies would be cross or restless if properly managed, and she gave me her experience with the first one. Of course I know nothing from experience; I can only observe and read and think, and I, too, hope to have a good baby if it is a well one.”

“Dear me! I should not have thought Mrs. Lennox was a woman to have strongly-formed ideas on the subject.”

“No, I don’t believe she thinks so herself. I don’t even know that she has formulated her ideas. She may have acted only on instinct, but the result is charming; if you were to see her children you would say so.”

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CHAPTER XL.
ENGLISH MUFFINS AND CRUMPETS—PICKLING AND CURING—ROAST BEEF-HEART—SOUSED MACKEREL.

Mrs. Welles’s visit was to have been a week only; but at the end of it it seemed as if they had but just got to the point of enjoying each other, and Mr. Welles was induced to spare her for a few days longer.

“I declare, Molly, when I came here I expected to do so much, both for you and myself, and I’ve done nothing.”

“Oh, yes; just consider my entertainment, what you did to help me in that; but there’s one thing I want this very day, that is, English muffins and crumpets. I have tried once or twice from recipes in my English cook-books, but they always give the quantities for a bakery,—a peck of flour, sometimes a bushel,—and it is difficult to reduce to my small needs; besides, I know success depends on consistency, and there is very little guidance given. ‘Water to make a soft dough’ is only stated; how soft is not hinted, and the so-called English muffins in our books are very good as muffins, only they don’t happen to be the thing at all.”

“I know it is really only a question of consistency. I will make some this very day, if you have yeast in the house.”

“Yes, I am especially anxious to have them, because they are as good two days old as one, and in a little family like ours that is a great thing.”

It was Monday, and by the time the muffins had risen, washing would be over and the top of the fire free.

“We’ll go out and set them now.”

The setting was very simple, being only the making of a stiff bread-sponge. Half a cake of yeast was dissolved in a pint and a half of warm milk, into which a scant tea-spoonful of salt, two of sugar and one large one of butter warmed, were stirred. Into this as much dry, sifted flour was mixed (about three pints) as would make an exceedingly stiff batter, in fact “stiffer than batter, softer than dough” may serve as an indication of the consistency, or “almost too stiff to stir, quite too soft to knead.” When this was beaten long and hard, one third was put into another bowl and this was thinned down with warm milk to a batter that would pour slowly. This was for crumpets, the only difference between the two being in consistency. They were covered and put behind the range to rise.

“Now let me have your book, Charlotte; I have the time, and will copy out what I want; but first give me a recipe for cooking beef heart. I remember what a good dish it was, and they are only ten or fifteen cents each, and there must be at least two pounds of solid meat in one.”

“There is; the only objection is the quickness with which heart chills, and the taste of cold suet is very disagreeable. This may be obviated by careful preparation, however; here is the recipe:

“Cut off the gristle and the ‘deaf ear,’ as the tough red lobe at the top is called, if the butcher has not done it, and trim off all the fat as closely as possible; then lay the heart in boiling water for half an hour, keeping it just simmering. When thus parboiled, dry it well and fill the three holes with nice stuffing, either sage, onion and bread crumbs made with equal proportions of boiled onions and crumbs, and chopped with ten large sage leaves to the pint, which must be dried till they powder, or highly seasoned veal-stuffing made as follows:

“Veal-Stuffing.—Two ounces of beef suet, chopped very fine, four ounces of bread crumbs, one table-spoonful of chopped parsley, and half one each of thyme and marjoram, and the juice of half a lemon, half a tea-spoonful of salt, a pinch of pepper and a suspicion of nutmeg.

“Fill the heart full of whichever of these stuffings is preferred, but do not press it in tight. Skewer over the top several thin slices of fat pork, dredge it with flour, and bake it one hour and a half in a good oven. Make gravy of a cup of good soup or broth, poured into the pan in which the heart was baked, and thickened with a tea-spoonful of brown thickening. Many people like red currant jelly made hot and served with it as sauce. The platter and plates must be very hot and the heart covered as it goes to table.

“The next day it can be warmed over by cutting it into slices and gently stewing it in a rich gravy. It is nicer than venison thus prepared.”

When Molly had this written in her book she opened the one Mrs. Welles handed to her and, to select from the many there, read, before copying, the recipes that would be most useful to herself and Mrs. Lennox.

“I see you have preliminary remarks which will be valuable.”

“Yes, my mother’s experience, not my own; but she was a North-of-England woman and thought the London cured meat not worth eating.”

Under the head of general rules Molly read:

Avoid salting meat in hot weather; from October to April is the right season. If forced to do it, however, cut it up and sprinkle it with salt before the animal heat leaves it. If hung even for an hour, there is danger from flies.

In cool weather, meat should hang three or four days to get tender before eating, but be very careful it does not become frost-bitten. In very cold weather, make the salt hot before using it.

The great art in salting meat is to turn it every day carefully, rubbing salt under every flap or double part, and filling all holes with salt wherever a kernel has been cut out, or a skewer has been in.

Use as little salt as will preserve the meat, as it will leave it more juicy and tender. Two ounces of bay salt, two of coarse sugar, and three quarters of a pound of common salt is a good proportion, and is enough for ten or twelve pounds of meat. Do not put on all the salt at once; have it rolled and dried, and use half the first day, and the remainder two or three days after. Then the blood from the first salting must be drained off. Sugar preserves meat as well as salt; hence its use, for it renders less salt necessary, and meat is more tender with it. Saltpetre is only useful for reddening meat, but is apt to harden it; if wanted red, however, take half an ounce of saltpetre and one of coarse sugar; this must be rubbed in the third day after the first slight salting; the common and bay salt the next day.

A small piece—eight or ten pounds—of pork or beef will require six or seven days; a large piece may be allowed a fortnight.

Pickling meat.—Many prefer to boil the meat in water, instead of rubbing dry salt in. The proportions of this pickle are, two gallons of water, three pounds of salt, half a pound of coarse brown sugar, two ounces of saltpetre. Boil together and skim very well while boiling. Let it become quite cold before putting in the meat, which must be carefully wiped from slime or blood and any pipes or kernels removed.

All meat, while salting, should be kept closely covered.

Dutch beef.—Get a fine piece of round of beef; rub it well with one pound of coarse sugar. Do this twice a day for three days, using same sugar. When the sugar has thoroughly penetrated the meat, wipe dry, and salt with the following mixture: Common and bay salt, of each four ounces; saltpetre and sal prunel, of each two ounces; black pepper and allspice, of each one ounce. Rub well and continue to do so for a fortnight, then roll the beef tight in a cloth, sew it up, and it is ready for smoking. The smoking should be long enough to thoroughly and slowly dry the meat, but not long enough for the covering to separate.

This beef may be cut and boiled as wanted. It should be pressed with a weight till cold. This will keep two or three months after it is boiled, if it is rubbed all over with hot fat (lard or suet melted), and a layer of fat put over a fresh-cut surface. This is delicious if a piece is cut off, put to dry slowly, and grated for sandwiches.

Mutton hams.—Coarse sugar, bay salt, and common salt, equal parts, and to each pound of this mixture add, of saltpetre and sal prunel, one ounce each, of black pepper, allspice, juniper berries, and coriander seeds, all bruised, half an ounce each. Dry them all before the fire, and rub into the meat while hot. This is an excellent pickle for tongues. Smoke as any other ham. Mutton hams are usually fried or broiled in rashers, or thin slices as you would pork ham.

Worcestershire sausages.—These are made entirely of beef. Choose a fine, juicy round steak; chop it extremely fine. Allow two parts lean, one part fat, and one part bread crumbs; season pretty high with pepper and salt (and allspice if liked). Allow to each pound eight sage leaves, dried and rubbed fine, with half a salt-spoonful of knotted marjoram. Put them in skins if you can, and cook as any other sausage.

Red beef for slicing cold.—The best part for this purpose is the thin flank. Take off the skinny inside, and salt the meat for a week or ten days with the following mixture rubbed in and turned morning and night: Common salt, one pound; saltpetre and bay salt, each one ounce; coarse brown sugar, a quarter of a pound. Pound and mix, using of the mixture more or less according to the size of the meat. When salt enough, wipe the meat dry; sprinkle over it black pepper, a little powdered mace and cloves, an onion chopped fine and some parsley. Roll it up, bind it tight with a strip of muslin, and boil it slowly three hours, or longer if large. Press with a heavy weight without removing the band. When cold remove the band and cut in very thin slices as required.

“Well, I think now if Mrs. Lennox and I get meat in large quantities this winter, we shall not need to let any of it spoil for lack of ways to keep it,” said Molly, as she prepared to copy the recipes she had read.

“No; but remember that mutton will keep for six weeks in cold, dry weather, even when not frozen, if it is well floured and a little ginger is put in the crevices. If it freezes and then thaws, it will generally need cooking, but the longer you can keep it the better it will be, so that it does not taint. The outer skin may even get mouldy, but you will only scrape the skin and trim it. If very mouldy and likely to give a taste, plunge it, after scraping, into boiling water; dry it thoroughly and bake in a very sharp oven. But all meat for keeping must hang, not lie, and hang in a current of pure air.”

“Thank you for the hint. What is this? Soused mackerel?” She had turned to the end of the note-book as she spoke. “I remember eating them at your house, and how good they were; that recipe also is going down in my book.”

Soused mackerel.—Clean, but do not split, four or six fresh mackerel; boil them in water just to cover, in which are one clove, three allspice, one tea-spoonful of salt and a quarter one of pepper to each fish. Take the fish out as soon as done, and before they break lay them in a deep dish. Boil the water in which they were cooked down to half; put to it an equal quantity of vinegar (unless the latter is very strong, when one-third will do), and pour it over the fish.

Soused mackerel another way—“and that is the way I like best,” said Mrs. Welles, and Molly read: Put three or four mackerel in an earthen dish, sprinkle over each mackerel a small tea-spoonful of salt, a sixth of pepper, and allow to each two allspice and half a blade of mace and half a bay leaf; mix vinegar and water in equal proportion, and pour enough over to cover the fish; put them in a very slow oven for three or four hours. By that time the liquor will have diminished until there is only enough to serve with the fish. These fish will keep for several weeks in cold weather. If the vinegar is very strong, use less in proportion.

After luncheon, Mrs. Welles went to look at her muffins. They were hardly light, but the crumpets were so nearly ready that she put on the griddle.

“You happen to have a soap-stone griddle! that is the very thing needed for muffins, though one can manage to bake on an iron one.”

“Yes, I am promising myself inodorous buckwheat cakes this winter with that.”

It took the griddle half an hour to get thoroughly hot.

“Of course you have no crumpet-rings?”

“No; but if these are a success I shall get a few made; meanwhile, won’t muffin rings do? They are the large, old-fashioned sort.”

“We must make them do; but I can’t bear anything not to look just right. I never fancy they eat well if they do not.” Molly handed out a bundle of large old rings which Mrs. Welles greased and laid on the griddle; then, when they were hot, she poured into each batter to the depth of a quarter of an inch, drawing the griddle a little back as she did so. She did not attempt to turn them until the top was full of holes and the batter had dried; then they were turned for about three minutes; except that they were more slowly cooked, the baking was the same as for what are usually called raised muffins, and they appeared the same, but not quite so thick. They should not be more than half an inch thick when cooked. When they were done the muffins were ready to bake; the paste was like honeycomb.

“Now the whole difficulty with these is shaping them, and it requires practice. I don’t know that I shall manage it; for it is years since I made them.”

The pastry-board was put on the table, a good deal of flour spread on it, and the paste turned out very gently.

“You see, Molly, that the griddle is hot, yet not too hot.”

As she spoke she lightly cut off bits of the soft dough about the size of a duck’s egg. She could not touch them easily, for they were too soft, but they were rolled about in the flour (taking care not to press them), which was not worked into them, and they were left in a sort of bed of it. When half a dozen were done, she took one up very gingerly, tossing it gently back and forth between her floured hands, to get rid of the superfluous flour, and also because she could not let them remain in one position for fear of their sticking to her hands, yet so carefully as not to press the lightness out. When she reached the griddle she lightly dropped the muffin in as round a form as possible on it. When half a dozen were put on in the same way, they were left to swell and get round and dry-looking, before the griddle was put forward to give them a slight browning. When the top looked no longer raw, they were gently turned and left five minutes the other side. The baking took about twenty minutes, and they were over an inch thick when done.

“I know one thing,—if I make these, I will have rings made four inches in diameter expressly for English muffins, although I know the real ones are baked without rings. It can’t make much difference to the quality, and will save much trouble to unpracticed hands.”

“I think so too.”

There were a great many more muffins and crumpets than were likely to be used in their small family, and Molly said she should send some to Mrs. Lennox.

“Then pray send the directions how to eat them, or they will simply put them in the oven, and they will be like leather. When some people have offered me real English muffins, bought at Pursell’s, with the crust like leather, I have been astonished that they could like them, and thought how they would enjoy them prepared in real English fashion.”

Molly penned a little note of directions as follows:

Dear Mrs. Lennox:—I send you some English muffins and crumpets made by Mrs. Welles, who is anxious that you at least should eat them as they are eaten in her country. She scouts the idea of their being simply made hot in the oven, and is only surprised that, eaten that way, they should be as much in favor as they are. Both are to be toasted, and are better the day after they are made. The crumpets are toasted both sides until hot through, slightly browner and crisp; then butter, very little salted, must be plentifully laid in little bits on each one as it is toasted; then put it in the oven while you toast the other. When the second is done, the butter on the first will be soft enough to spread without pressure. When all are buttered, cut once through the middle.

The muffins are also toasted. They must be broken all round the edge as if you were going to split them, then toasted on both sides until the crust will crack under the thumb nail. Rip them open quickly, put a bountiful supply of butter, in small pieces, on the inside of each half; close it and put it in the oven while another is being toasted. When it comes out the butter will be melted. Never attempt to spread them first, or they will be heavy. If the butter has not spread all over, you may gently use a knife to make it even, but without pressure. When each muffin is put together again, spread a little butter on the outer crust, and cut them through the middle.

The essentials are that they should be well toasted, so as to be hot through and crisp outside, then so quickly buttered as not to get cold, and to be served very hot. There is a covered dish on purpose, called a muffineer, but lacking that, a hot bowl should be turned over them to keep them hot.

It is English fashion, for tea, to serve both muffins and crumpets. They are handed round together, a plate of each, some preferring one, some the other. At breakfast, muffins alone are usual. I just say the last to round up the matter, not that I suppose you will care one bit what the English mode of serving is, but I do think, for the sake of our digestion, we should either eat them toasted or let them alone. I send you over my receipt-book, in which I have copied some things that may be useful to both of us. You tell me Mr. Lennox writes out such things for you, and you can keep the book until he has leisure.

Yours sincerely,
Molly Bishop.

The pork hocks had been put on early for the mock brawn, and taken out and boned. The stock was now made, and Molly seasoned and prepared it in accordance with her plan. The pieces of pork, the seasoning, and the best of the beef, cut into pieces about two inches square, and of which there was about twice as much as there was pork, were put into the liquor, heated once together, and then poured into a pan. It looked rather like head cheese. When cold, it turned out in a slab. Part was sent to Mrs. Lennox with an explanation of what it was; part to Mrs. Gibbs, with the rest of the meat made into the usual hash for her; and the remainder was kept for home purposes, for both Mrs. Welles and Marta found it very relishing.

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CHAPTER XLI.
THE BABY—CONCLUSION.

It is July, nearly a year after Mr. and Mrs. Bishop began the experiment of keeping house in Mrs. Winfield’s cottage, which has become very dear to them both, although in three months they are to leave it and go into one of their own. So charmed had Mr. Bishop, senior, become with Harry’s home that he had been a frequent visitor during the summer, and sometimes Mrs. Bishop, too, came; but society engagements took her time, and when May came, she fled with her daughters to a fashionable watering-place, and Mr. Bishop, instead of staying as usual in his city house, came out to stay with his son, and went in with him to business daily. The result was that Harry was reinstated in his father’s favor, and it seemed as if the elder gentleman was going to make amends for his past mistake; for he told Harry he would now do what he always had meant to do until he found he was bent on making a fool of himself.

“Not that your luck is anything to your credit,” he persisted; “it’s a mere fluke your getting such a wife as Molly; but you’ll come into the firm as junior at Christmas.”

This was what Harry had been brought up to expect, and the prospect that he had to give up on marrying Molly. He was grateful to his father, for after all, pleasant as life was for him even with his narrow income, it was likely to be a great deal pleasanter when he would not have to count every cent so closely.

“Yes, yes, you are one who has the luck to ‘eat his cake and have it too,’” said the old gentleman irritably; “but I’m doing it just as much for Molly and the baby as for you.”

Yes, there was a baby,—a baby just thirty-six hours old when Mr. Bishop announced his intention to the young father; and Harry carried back to Molly that evening a very glad heart. The baby was a girl, and Molly’s only shadow was that Harry did not seem to admire it so much as she thought it deserved.

“You mean to say you don’t think it’s pretty, Harry?” she had asked when she exhibited the little red, squirming thing in its nest of flannel.

Harry shook his head doubtfully. “I may see some beauty later when, when it gets into some sort of shape, and its head is screwed tighter; at present I don’t admire it, but, as Mark Twain says, ‘I’ve a certain respect for it, for its father’s sake.’”

“Oh, Harry!”

This was in the morning before he left home, and when he returned at night he went up to Molly’s room and kissed her. He thought she must certainly see the good news in his face, so accustomed was he to her reading his countenance.

“Well, Molly, don’t you want to know the news?”

“But you haven’t asked after the baby;—don’t you want to kiss it?”

“My dear Molly, your serenity told me how the baby was,—and—and I wouldn’t disturb it to kiss it.”

“You never saw such a sleeper as she is; she won’t wake, and I’ve hardly seen her eyes yet!”

“I hope she’ll continue such good habits; but now, Molly, I have great news—news I expected some time, of course, but not quite so soon.”

Then he told the news, and Molly responded only by a closer pressure of his hand.

“And that is not all; my father has decided to buy the Framley cottage and rent it to us, and says he meant to give my wife a check as a wedding present, had I married Miss Vanderpool, and now he sends it to you.”

“Oh, Harry, how good of him! how much is it? That sounds greedy; but if it is enough we can furnish with it.”

Harry opened his pocketbook and took out a check for $1,000. “You must lay this by, Molly, for yourself; you know I have $3,000 which we agreed never to touch except for some emergency; but now that my prospects are assured I prefer to furnish for you, Molly, rather than you for me.”

“What will be your income, Harry?”

“Oh, nothing very splendid, for I am only junior with a fifth interest, but it is the certainty of the future that delights me.”

“Yes, and the proof of your father’s affection.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You remember, Harry, what we promised each other,—that even with a better income our expenses were not to be increased?”

“Not while I was on a salary, dear; but I am quite contented with the last year of our life; I want nothing grander or better, but I do want to see you in your own house furnished with your own taste, and replete with all the conveniences that will make the housekeeping you love, easy to you; and I shall insist on providing you with such assistance as will save your health and strength. But I am not anxious for style or show, and we will waste no money upon it.”

Nor did they.

Mr. Framley had built one of the handsomest houses in Greenfield, and the charming Queen Anne cottage they had hitherto lived in had been for sale. Molly had often pointed it out to her father-in-law and admired its beautiful lawn and expatiated on the fruits and kitchen garden, little supposing it would soon be her own home.

The only crumple in Molly’s rose leaves was Mrs. Bishop, senior’s, views with regard to the baby. Molly had had no babies: her mother-in-law had had eight, five of whom had lived and flourished. But Molly had known other people’s babies, and had made their experience her own, so far as observation enabled her to do it, and she had read all the good writing there was on the baby question, and, as may be expected, had her views and naturally wished to carry them out in the person of her own baby. If a woman can’t do what she likes with her own baby, when is she to do it?

But, strange to say, the dowager, Mrs. Bishop, seemed to feel the new comer was even more Harry’s baby and her own grandchild than Molly’s child, and being her first “posterity,” she was very much interested in it, and she and Mr. Bishop had come to the Greenfield hotel in order to be at hand.

Very soon Molly, with her latter-day views of baby training, and Mrs. Bishop, with her experience of eight, clashed. For days the struggle was silent, for she was Harry’s mother; and all the directions for giving anise-seed tea and gin and water, and paregoric, were quietly disregarded,—but the tug of war came when Molly refused to nurse it before the appointed hour.

“And you mean to say you will not feed that little creature till the time you think it needs it? Can you judge of a baby’s hunger?”

“Mamma, I asked the doctor to guide me, and all the best writers say”—

“There it is!” cried Mrs. Bishop, triumphantly. “You are such a theorist, Molly; but you can’t bring up a child by books, and it may cost you this one’s life or health to find that out. I am surprised a woman of your sense should not see that you can’t set up your book experience against the practical knowledge of a mother of eight.”

Molly made no reply: she could not be cruel enough to hint that three of the eight had died.

Happily for Molly and the carrying out of her views, Mrs. Lennox, who had become a very dear friend, was with her very much, and it was her nurse, an intelligent woman, who was in attendance; and between them they had been able to save Molly much anxiety. She knew that her own orders, and no one’s else, would be carried out; this otherwise would have been a terrible anxiety; for her doctor had said to her, in one of her talks with him before the birth of the child, “Half the babies’ stomachs are ruined in the first month, and the poor baby becomes a victim to colic and indigestion through that month’s mistakes. Some babies are born to it, but these are few compared with the many that are made to suffer by bad habits.”

Mrs. Bishop, senior, disapproved of the nurse, and openly derided the doctor, and audibly scorned the idea of putting a baby a fortnight old in “training” and freely told her daughter that Molly was not fit to be a mother; that she ought to have remained single and become a doctress, or screeched for woman’s rights from a platform.

The excitement of the contention on Molly had to be stopped, and, unknown to his wife, Harry, instigated by Mrs. Lennox, had to warn his mother that she must leave Molly to her own ideas, even if they were mistaken; and Mrs. Bishop had contented herself afterwards with expressing her opinions and her fears. But when, in spite of all, the baby flourished and grew fat, and seemed freer from the ills of babyhood than the average, she averred it was owing to the cast-iron constitution it had inherited from its father. She declared that “to point to Molly’s child as a proof that the new ideas of bringing up babies are better than the old is as reasonable as to point to the health and strength of the Germans as a proof that babies ought to be swaddled and bound on to boards for the first months of their lives, in order to become so strong and straight. One forgets the number who die under the process, and it is only the very strong who survive.”

And this, strangely enough, was exactly what Molly also said to herself when she heard that Harry “actually owed his life to soothing syrup,” which had enabled him to survive his teething troubles.

And so with a beautiful, healthy baby (whom, by the bye, Harry now dandles with great pride), a new house, and the delightful task of furnishing it, in these days of pretty furniture and dainty devices, we leave Molly with as bright a future before her as a loving husband, good health, good prospects and a resolve to be a good, true wife and mother could give to any woman.

Of Marta there are a few words to be said. Those of Molly’s friends who are not very often at the house consider Mrs. Bishop a very fortunate woman in having such a treasure. Molly herself thinks so; but I doubt if half those who so speak would have been satisfied with Marta’s moderate gifts. She was a treasure because she was true and faithful in everything. Her service was not better than that of any clean, strong, willing girl, under the eye of an intelligent mistress.

“But Marta was such a wonderful cook!” some would say. Marta would never be a good cook unguided; it was not in her; she had had the exceptional advantage of training under a woman who, if she had needed it, had qualified herself to teach cooking professionally; who cooked scientifically from precise rules, and who herself had very little to learn when she began with Marta, and who had patience as well as knowledge.

How few girls have such a chance! We send girls to a cooking-school to take twelve or twenty-four lessons, and we know that if they are of the right material (and if not we should hardly send them), they leave the school vastly improved, with quite different ideas from those who have been through no such training; and Marta had been at such a school daily for many months, yet, at the end of them, her accomplishments were not many. She could fry, stew, roast, and make soup to perfection. She could not be trusted to do anything that depended on flavor or taste; she never seemed to learn that one clove may be pleasant, half a dozen detestable; that herbs should only lend a vague savoriness, never be so strong as to make one feel they were partaking of marjoram soup or parsley stew. But Molly knew her limitations and knew—take her all in all—she was not likely to better herself by changing. A girl of quicker wits might have been less faithful, or, if so bright as to learn all Molly could teach, she would naturally and rightly wish to take a place as professed cook, with her thirty or forty dollars a month wages, and no washing. So Marta remained, a very devoted servant; very exasperating sometimes, but at all times valuable.

Mrs. Lennox has only one thing to say; she does not regret taking Maggie; she is no worse off in her pocket, and is better off in nerves and muscles; the tired, overworked look is no longer conspicuous. She is still overworked and overworried, but she has a strong pair of arms to call upon, and they are willing to do the appointed task which Mrs. Lennox always remembers she must otherwise have done herself. Maggie needed watching at every turn the first few months; she now knows the ways and does the work fairly well. She is no paragon, and if Mrs. Lennox had no children she would rather be without her, but when she gets out of patience she looks back and remembers how she had not even time “to think” before she came; when she did sit down her muscles ached and tingled so that even rest was a dull void, simply cessation from exertion. Mrs. Lennox now does the cooking and the sewing; Maggie does the work. She will never do more in the cooking way than boil potatoes, make mush and bread (the latter well, for she knows only one way and that is the way she does it), and burn or smoke a beefsteak. But Mrs. Lennox will soon have either to pay her more, or take another new arrival; that is inevitable.

It must not be thought that all Molly’s neighbors were as fond of her as Mrs. Lennox. No one can live up to a higher ideal than the average (even when the ideal is only cooking), without hurting some one’s corns. Several ladies disapproved of her, thought she set a very bad example by making men expect too much of their wives, and those who lived very badly on double Harry’s income felt personally injured.

But all this Molly did not know; she did not suspect that her affairs were known or discussed, but before leaving Greenfield Mrs. Winfield had spoken, with the best intentions in the world, of this young couple’s romantic marriage, and the bravery required of a young wife to face life on $100 a month, with a husband brought up, as Harry had been, in such splendor and luxury. This was naturally discussed till the story became public property, unknown to the heroine of it, who had no thought of setting an example, good or bad, or of shining brightly by comparison with less clever or energetic women; indeed, she was rather conscious of shortcomings of her own. She looked hopelessly on the piles of sewing some of her friends got through, with very many calls on their time besides, and could only comfort herself with the thought that her abilities did not lie in that direction, and that she could only do the best that was in her.

Another pleasure in store for Molly is that Mrs. Welles is soon to be her neighbor; for Mr. Welles had promised to build a house near them, in consequence of which Harry predicts that Greenfield will soon have a rival to Soyer’s celebrated symposium.

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