“It is onion sauce, made with broth instead of milk. Now we will lay the meat in and leave it to steep in this sauce at the back of the range, where it will keep at boiling-point but not boil. The last thing, add a tea-spoonful of vinegar or a few capers.” Now the cabbage. “Yes, I’m waiting for that miracle,” said Mrs. Lennox, coming with it in the colander, after shaking the water well out. “I shall lay the blame on your shoulders if Mr. Lennox’s olfactories are offended; he will forgive you anything, since through you we have lived better and spent a dollar less in three days. There is nothing truer than that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” “Then we must take that path,” said Molly merrily. “The cabbage needs a table-spoonful of salt added to the water and a scant half tea-spoonful of soda.” “I shall wait and see the success of the cabbage,” added Molly, laughing, when she had seen it boiling furiously, “although the meat is done, so I may iron another piece or two.” Both took up their irons, and after a few minutes Mrs. Lennox exclaimed:— “It is positively true!” “What is?” “That cabbage has no disagreeable smell.” “No, but it would have if you left it on the stove to cook slowly for an hour or two. It is the long _slow_ cooking in _little_ water that ruins it and all green vegetables.” Mrs. Lennox now prepared to lay the cloth, and when she returned to the kitchen Molly had taken up the cabbage and pressed it. It was bright pale green, streaked, where the heart was, with creamy white. “Is that the cabbage? and is it done?” “Try for yourself. You see it is far more tender than when slowly boiled, and is marrowy as spinach.” “So it is; but how did you find it out?” “I didn’t. I was told by an English lady. I had noticed that all English cooking-books gave twenty minutes to half an hour to boil cabbage, while ours always say two hours. And I noticed, too, it was never alluded to as a coarse, rank vegetable, and I asked an explanation from her, and she also told me she dared not eat cabbage here, for fear of indigestion; but I never yet found any one who believed me when I told them cabbage should only be boiled twenty-five minutes, nor can I induce them to try it. They all think that I prefer half-raw cabbage. Now I leave you to dress it as you like, for I must run home.” “I shall just put pepper, salt, and butter on it, it looks so pretty,—and to think there is only a pleasant odor!” When Molly reached home she found Marta looking very scared. “What is wrong?” asked Molly, sure that some disaster had occurred. Marta silently pointed to the soup, which looked like pink curds and whey; then, turning rather sulkily to the stewed tomatoes, she evidently expected to be scolded. Molly said nothing for the moment, but opened the oven and found the shoulder of lamb beautifully brown, and other things doing well; she was heartily glad there was something to praise.