I HAVE said before that Molly had repeated, as often as she could, the dishes she had first taught Marta, so that she might not get confused, and might know thoroughly a few things. She hoped by this means to be able to depend upon her for certain dishes. At the beginning of this new month Marta seemed to have learned thoroughly how to make clear soup, white sauce, bread, and to fry; and to Molly this did not seem a bad result. In knowing how to make clear soup, she knew the principle of soup-making, and could make any other meat soup,—also in learning this she had learned what _slow boiling_ really meant, and could therefore boil meat well. To make white sauce perfectly meant to do many other things of which that, or its modifications, are the foundation. Whether Marta’s intelligence was quick enough to show her the value of the key she held, that good white sauce meant good béchamel sauce, good celery sauce, lobster sauce, poulette and all the long list of sauces with high-sounding French names, that seem so hopelessly unattainable to ordinary cooks, as well as all kinds of white soups, and many sweet dishes,—that she would see and apply all this was a great deal too much to hope; but if she would only keep her execution of what she could do up to the mark, Molly would feel that her efforts were far from wasted. “If she will only not be content with having accomplished these things a few times, and will _not_ become careless as she gets familiar, I must be very thankful;” but this was just what Molly did fear. The bread, although light and good, was never twice alike, unless Molly superintended the making; which assured her that Marta had taken to “guessing” or, what was as bad, to measuring carelessly. Carefully she explained to her that a pint of flour did _not_ mean all that could be taken up on a pint measure, or that a pint of water did not mean the larger half of a quart measure; but the bread still came to table, sometimes coarse-grained, sometimes very close, showing it was sometimes made very wet, at others stiff, but always light and sweet so far; but she feared this lack of exactness might run into other things. If so, it could not be helped. Molly knew that many very good cooks, who turned out excellent dishes, never measured, could never tell how they did it, or give an intelligible recipe. Such cases had been often quoted to her as a reason why the precision of scientific cooking, as taught in cooking-schools, was nonsense; but she knew that those who cooked thus, although they might produce excellent results four times out of five, the fifth time might make a failure; they are always subject to good and bad “luck” with their cooking; and she knew, too, there are a certain few who are gifted with such a correct eye for quantity that they could calculate the weight of a thing to a quarter of an ounce,—she herself had this gift to a certain extent, but she never trusted to it,—yet she understood that a cook with that