It was not a sumptuous repast to which Sarah sat down after she had placed Jeannie in her high chair and tied the great gingham bib around her neck. On the contrary, it came near being a scant provision for the healthy appetites of seven people. Before Mr. Hunt, a mild, quiet little man, was a dish of stew, which was, in its peculiar line, a thing--not of beauty, but wonder. Only a few days since, as I stood near the stall of a poultry vender in market, a lady inquired for chickens. "Yes, ma'am. Roasting size, ma'am?" "No. I want them for a fricassee." "Ah"--with a look of shrewd intelligence. "Then, ma'am, I take it, you don't care to have 'em overly tender. Most ladies prefers the old ones for fricassee. They come cheaper and very often bile tender." "Thank you," was the amused rejoinder. "The difference in the price is no consideration where the safety of our teeth is concerned." Mrs. Hunt suffered not these scruples to hinder her negotiations with knowing poultry merchants. A cent less per pound would be three cents saved upon the chicken, and three cents would buy enough turnips for dinner. It is an ignorant housekeeper who needs to be informed that stewed chicken "goes further" than the same fowl made into any other savory combination. Mrs. Hunt's stews were concocted after a recipe of her own invention. Imprimis, one chicken, weight varying from two and a half to three pounds; salt pork, a quarter of a pound; gravy abundant; dumplings innumerable. It was all "stew," and if Jeannie's share was but a bare drumstick, swimming in gravy and buried in boiled dough, there was the chicken flavor through the portion. For classic antecedent the reader is referred to the fable of the rose-scented clay. To leave the principal dish, which justice to Mrs. Hunt's genius would not permit me to pass with briefer mention, there were, besides, potatoes, served whole (mashed ones required butter and cream), turnips and bread, and Mrs. Hunt presided over a shallow platter of pork and beans. What was left of that dish would be warmed over to piece out breakfast next morning. The children behaved well, and the most minute by-law of table etiquette was observed with a strictness that imparted an air of ceremonious restraint to the meal. If Mrs. Hunt's young people were not in time finished ladies and gentlemen, it was not her fault, nor was it for the lack of drilling. "Do as I tell you; not as I do," were her orders in these matters. Since Lucy had completed her education, the mother added, "Look at your sister; she is never awkward." This was true. Lucy was born the fine lady. Refinement of manner and grace of movement, an instinctive avoidance of whatever looked common or underbred were a part of her nature. Only the usage of years had accustomed her to her mother's somewhat "fussy" ways.