Six plump birds were laid out on a platter, with their legs folded in the most pathetic manner; these Edith bore away in triumph to the kitchen, and opening the book before her went to work energetically, resigning herself to frying the pork and cutting up the onion, which she had overlooked when hastily reading the receipt. In time they were stuffed, the legs tied down to the tails, the birds browned in the stew-pan, and put to simmer with a pinch of herbs. "Now I can clear up, and rest a bit. If I ever have to work for a living I _won't_ be a cook," said Edith, with a sigh of weariness as she washed her dishes, wondering how there could be so many; for no careless Irish girl would have made a greater clutter over this small job than the young lady who had not yet learned one of the most important things that a cook should know. The bell rang just as she got done, and was planning to lie and rest on the dining-room sofa till it was time to take up her pigeons. "Tell whoever it is that I'm engaged," she whispered, as the maid passed, on her way to the door. "It's your cousin, miss, from the country, and she has a trunk with her. Of course she's to come in?" asked Maria, coming back in a moment. "Oh, dear me! I forgot all about Patty. Mamma said any day this week, and this is the most inconvenient one of the seven. Of course, she must come in. Go and tell her I'll be there in a minute," answered Edith, too well bred not to give even an unwelcome guest a kindly greeting. Whisking off cap and apron, and taking a last look at the birds, just beginning to send forth a savory steam, she went to meet her cousin. Patty was a rosy, country lass of sixteen, plainly dressed and rather shy, but a sweet, sensible little body, with a fresh, rustic air which marked her for a field-flower at once. "How do you do, dear? so sorry mamma is away; called to a sick friend in a hurry. But I'm here and glad to see you. I've an engagement at two, and you shall go with me. It's only a lunch close by, just a party of girls; I'll tell you about it upstairs." Chatting away, Edith led Patty up to the pretty room ready for her, and soon both were laughing over a lively account of the exploits of the cooking-class. Suddenly, in the midst of the cream-pie which had been her great success, and nearly the death of all who partook thereof, Edith paused, sniffed the air like a hound, and crying tragically, "They are burning! They are burning!" rushed down stairs as if the house was on fire. Much alarmed, Patty hurried after her, guided to the kitchen by the sound of lamentation. There she found Edith hanging over a stew-pan, with anguish in her face and despair in her voice, as she breathlessly explained the cause of her flight. "My pigeons! Are they burnt? Do smell and tell me? After all my trouble I shall be heart-broken if they are spoilt."