“This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty; “how I came to be such a simpleton as to get married before I knew how to keep house, is more and more of an astonisher to me. I _can_ learn, and I _will_! There’s Bridget told me yesterday there wasn’t time to make a pudding before dinner. I had my private suspicions she was imposing upon me, though I didn’t know enough about it to contradict her. The truth is, I’m no more mistress of this house than I am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it, too; and, there’s Harry (how hot it makes my cheeks to think of it!) couldn’t find an eatable thing on the dinner table yesterday. He loves me too well to say anything, but he had such an ugly frown on his face when he lit his cigar and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is: “‘One must eat in matrimony, And love is neither bread nor honey, And so, you understand.’” * * * * * “What on earth sent you over here in this dismal rain?” said Kitty’s neighbor, Mrs. Green. “Just look at your gaiters.” “Oh, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying her “rigolette,” and throwing herself on the sofa. “I don’t know any more about cooking than a six-weeks’ kitten; Bridget walks over my head with the most perfect Irish _nonchalance_; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained bishop; the days grow short, the bills grow long, and I’m the most miserable little Kitty that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, baking, and roasting; take me into your kitchen now, and let me go into it while the fit is on me. I feel as if I could roast Chanticleer and all his hen-harem!” “You don’t expect to take your degree in one forenoon?” said Mrs. Green, laughing immoderately. “Not a bit of it! I intend to come every morning, if the earth don’t whirl off its axle. I’ve locked up my guitar and my French and Italian books, and that irresistible ‘Festus,’ and nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a gridiron in the face without flinching. Come, put down that embroidery, there’s a good Samaritan, and descend with me into the lower regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower-bath,” and she rolled up her sleeves from her round white arms, took off her rings, and tucked her curls behind her ears. Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her resolution; each day added a little to her store of culinary wisdom. What if she did flavor her first custards with peppermint instead of lemon? What if she did “baste” a turkey with saleratus instead of salt? What if she did season the stuffing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper? Rome wasn’t built in a day;--cooks can’t be manufactured in a minute. * * * * *