alarm.
“Here’s my old coat,” said Mr. Smith, holding up that defaced
garment—”Where is the new one?”
“The old clothes man has it, as sure as I live!” burst from my lips.
“Well, that is a nice piece of work, I must confess!”
This was all my husband said; but it was enough to smite me almost
to the floor. Covering my face with my hands, I dropped into a
chair, and sat and sobbed for a while bitterly.
“It can’t be helped now, Jane,” said Mr. Smith, at length, in a
soothing voice. “The coat is gone, and there is no help for it. You
will know better next time.”
That was all he said to me then, and I was grateful for his kind
consideration. He saw that I was punished quite severely enough, and
did not add to my pain by rebuke or complaint.
An attempt was made during the week to recover the coat, valued at
some twenty dollars; but the china ornament-man was not to be
found—he had made too good a bargain to run the risk of having it
broken.
About an hour after the discovery of the loss of my husband’s coat,
I went quietly down into the parlor, and taking from the
mantle-piece the china vases, worth, probably, a dollar for the
pair, concealed them under my apron, lest any one should see what I
had; and, returning up stairs, hid them away in a dark closet, where
they have ever since remained.
The reader may be sure that I never forgot this, my first and last
speculation in china ware.
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS.
WAS there ever a good cook who hadn’t some prominent fault that
completely overshadowed her professional good qualities? If my
experience is to answer the question, the reply will be—_no_.
I had been married several years before I was fortunate enough to
obtain a cook that could be trusted to boil a potato, or broil a
steak. I felt as if completely made up when Margaret served her
first dinner. The roast was just right, and all the vegetables were
cooked and flavored as well as if I had done it myself—in fact, a
little better. My husband eat with a relish not often exhibited, and
praised almost every thing on the table.
For a week, one good meal followed another in daily succession. We
had hot cakes, light and fine-flavored, every morning for breakfast,
with coffee not to be beaten—and chops or steaks steaming from the
gridiron, that would have gladdened the heart of an epicure. Dinner
was served, during the time, with a punctuality that was rarely a
minute at fault, while every article of food brought upon the table,
fairly tempted the appetite. Light rolls, rice cakes, or “Sally
Luns,” made without suggestion on my part usually met us at tea
time. In fact, the very delight of Margaret’s life appeared to be in
cooking. She was born for a cook.
Moreover, strange to say, Margaret was good-tempered, a most
