The coffee had now all dripped through; she took a cup and poured it full of coffee, and then poured it back to run through again,—then she directed Marta to cut the melon in half, remove the seeds, and lay the halves in a dish with a piece of ice in each half. Knowing Marta would not understand cracking ice, Molly had put some ready, when she had gone for the bowl and egg for mayonnaise. “Now, Marta, I will run up stairs and get ready for lunch; while I am gone take the melon into the dining-room and put it on the table at the side opposite the biscuit. Remember, at _luncheon_ everything may go on the table at once. The butter is ready on a dish in the ice-box; place that, and by that time I will be down.” Molly had worn a homespun walking-dress, and it had been the custom of herself and friend, Mrs. Welles, to try and emulate the neatness of the teacher at the cooking-school they had attended, who dressed handsomely, wore no apron, and left her class spotless. They had attained to great neatness, but Molly found herself more comfortable in a large apron. She did not yet remove it, but put on a clean collar, arranged a stray curl, and washed her face and hands, then ran down to finish her omelette. She put the frying-pan back to a hot place, stirred the yolks of eggs with a good pinch of salt and a little pepper, and mixed them gently with the whites, and poured both into the pan, which she turned about that the mixture might run into every part; and when it was “set” underneath, she lifted one side, tilted the pan and allowed the uncooked custard to run into its place; this she kept on doing, always turning the cooked part toward the centre, until in three minutes it was a light custard-like mass; then, with a cake-turner, she folded one side over and slipped the doubled omelette on to a hot dish, where it lay, a delicate golden-brown mound. “Now, Marta, take in the coffee and milk.” She heard Harry coming down stairs, and looking at the clock saw it was three minutes past one. “Going up to dress did that,” she thought, “but it is not so bad, yet I am sorry Marta has the bad example.” “Odors of Araby the blest!” quoted Harry, as Molly, divested of her apron, the omelette in hand, followed him into the dining-room. “I smell coffee!—real aromatic coffee!” He stood and surveyed the pretty lunch table, looked at the Delmonico-like salad, the Frenchy omelette, and then at Molly. “Humph, is this all cooking-school, or is it part caterer,—if there is such a being in Greenfield?” “It is part cooking-school, and a tiny bit Molly,” said the young wife. “No, indeed, I have no acquaintance with caterers.” “This omelette should not palpitate its excellence away; shall I help you, dear?” “No; I devote myself to salad”—then to Marta, who was waiting, uncertain what to do: “Marta, go into the kitchen and wash up, in quite hot water, the soiled pans and dishes.”