“Winter beets will require three hours to cook. Use hot water.” Billy's startled eyes sought the clock. Three hours--and it was five, now! Frenziedly, then, she ran her finger down the page. “Onions, one and one-half hours. Use hot water. Turnips require a long time, but if cut thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter.” “An hour and a quarter, indeed!” she moaned. “Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't take forever to cook?” “Early peas--... green corn--... summer squash--...” mumbled Billy's dry lips. “But what do folks eat in January--_January_?” It was the apparently inoffensive sentence, “New potatoes will boil in thirty minutes,” that brought fresh terror to Billy's soul, and set her to fluttering the cookbook leaves with renewed haste. If it took _new_ potatoes thirty minutes to cook, how long did it take old ones? In vain she searched for the answer. There were plenty of potatoes. They were mashed, whipped, scalloped, creamed, fried, and broiled; they were made into puffs, croquettes, potato border, and potato snow. For many of these they were boiled first--“until tender,” one rule said. “But that doesn't tell me how long it takes to get 'em tender,” fumed Billy, despairingly. “I suppose they think anybody ought to know that--but I don't!” Suddenly her eyes fell once more on the instructions for boiling turnips, and her face cleared. “If it helps to cut turnips thin, why not potatoes?” she cried. “I _can_ do that, anyhow; and I will,” she finished, with a sigh of relief, as she caught up half a dozen potatoes and hurried into the pantry for a knife. A few minutes later, the potatoes, peeled, and cut almost to wafer thinness, were dumped into a basin of cold water. “There! now I guess you'll cook,” nodded Billy to the dish in her hand as she hurried to the stove. Chilled by an ominous unresponsiveness, Billy lifted the stove lid and peered inside. Only a mass of black and graying coals greeted her. The fire was out. “To think that even you had to go back on me like this!” upbraided Billy, eyeing the dismal mass with reproachful gaze. This disaster, however, as Billy knew, was not so great as it seemed, for there was still the gas stove. In the old days, under Dong Ling's rule, there had been no gas stove. Dong Ling disapproved of “devil stoves” that had “no coalee, no woodee, but burned like hellee.” Eliza, however, did approve of them; and not long after her arrival, a fine one had been put in for her use. So now Billy soon had her potatoes with a brisk blaze under them. In frantic earnest, then, Billy went to work. Brushing the discarded onions, turnip, and beets into a pail under the table, she was still confronted with the beefsteak, lettuce, and grapefruit. All but the beefsteak she pushed to one side with gentle pats.