WHEN Molly made the humiliating discovery that she had forgotten the yeast, Harry, who was smoking and reading, looked up. “What shall I do, that baker’s bread is so sour?” “I’ll tell you, let’s sally forth and get it! It’s a lovely night!” “Would you?” exclaimed Molly, brightly. “Why not? You don’t suppose you are going to monopolize all the merits and reap all the glory of this housekeeping, do you? Why, I should not be able to have one of the little jokes other married men seem to enjoy at their wife’s expense.” “I hate such jokes,” said Molly; “they are so cheap, and generally unjust.” “Then I promise I won’t make them. I’ll never boast of the servant girls I escort out from New York, nor of the baskets I carry, nor the”— “You’ll have no chance if you respect the truth,” said Molly, laughing. “Now if we are going, I’ll put on my things.” The little town of Greenfield was just venturing on electric lights, and, with the band of its skating-rink making music, had quite a dissipated appearance, as the young couple strolled around in search of a grocer, and Molly, at the same time, found out a few other facts she was anxious to know, and had not yet had time to discover. As they walked home, Harry said, hesitating, “My dear, I don’t want to interfere with your housekeeping, and I feel my own insignificance in approaching such a subject, but I would diffidently suggest that our family is at present very small, and neither you nor I like stale bread. Do you think Marta can be induced to consume all the ‘left over’ loaves?” “No, I don’t.” “Then don’t you think we had better try another baker who doesn’t make sour bread, or”—this was said very slowly, as if it would be a sad necessity—“I might bring it out from New York.” Molly laughed merrily. “I think I see you! Surely then you could joke about your martyrdom. No, my dear boy, you’re going to have no such toothsome morsel as that for a joke, but I see you are afraid of stale bread.” “The truth is, I have a lively recollection of living in the country and eating bread a week old, and older still sometimes, when the general appetite failed, and I don’t believe I’m up to that sort of thing now.” “I don’t think you are, so you will not be tested. Now-a-days one doesn’t fear baking as one used to do. It is no more trouble to make bread three times a week than to boil potatoes.” “I’m delighted to hear it. I’m learning every hour my own benighted ignorance.” When they reached home Molly went into the kitchen and put one quarter of the yeast cake in a pint of warm water, which she made Marta, who was to make the next bread, feel was just about as warm as milk from the cow, then she put a heaped quart of flour in the mixing-bowl and set it in the oven with the door open, telling Marta to stir it in a few minutes that it might get evenly warm through.