The dish was a great success. Harry, without an idea that it had cost but ten cents, cut it in slices a quarter of an inch thick, which, where mottled with the pork and the rich brown gravy, gave quite an air to the homely viand. The bisque of oysters Marta had managed very nicely, and also the peach pudding, all but the foaming sauce, which Molly had shown her how to make; it was a good sauce, but did not foam; the only real fault was with the croquettes, which were like sausage meat and not at all creamy. Molly made no comments at the time, knowing that a much more experienced cook often made no better, but next morning she meant to find out where the mistake was. “Did you notice, Marta, that the croquettes last night were not quite right?” “Yes, they were harder, but I went exactly by the directions.” “I want you to tell me just what you did, and then we will see where the mistake came in. You managed everything else so nicely.” Marta repeated the recipe correctly and Molly was puzzled. “Are you sure you did just as you say?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Then show me how you measured half a pint.” “Ah, there it is; you have really only a little more than a gill. Did you measure like that yesterday?” Marta confessed that she had, and the puzzle was solved, and more understandable still when Molly saw what she called a table-spoonful of flour; it was really near two, for she had used the large kitchen basting-spoon, and used it heaped. “Now, Marta, I want to tell you something. You are anxious to cook like the man cook you once knew; that is, you want everything you do to turn out always right, and they will only do that by your being very exact about measuring and weighing. A tea-spoonful more or less seems a trifle, and yet it will spoil many things. Remember, if you have a recipe that calls for a table-spoonful, it means just that, if the recipe is good for anything, and half a pint is exactly that measure _full_, not partly full. “Gouffé, the celebrated French cook, who wrote a remarkable book for other cooks, was so particular that he explains exactly how much he means by weight when he says ‘a pinch of salt,’ and he directs one to weigh each carrot and turnip for soup till one’s eye is accustomed to the sizes.” CHAPTER XVI. RYE BREAD—OYSTER PATTIES—KNUCKLE OF VEAL, À LA MAÎTRE D’HÔTEL—A SAVORY DISH. MOLLY knew the virtues of rye bread; and in perfection, as had she eaten it once in her life, she had enjoyed it much,—it had been so sweet, so light, and seemed to have the quality of never getting stale. She knew that to some people rye bread represented a loaf that cut like liver, that was sweet in flavor, but in wheaten bread would have been called heavy; and to others it was a sour, dark bread, much approved by Germans. But that rye bread need be neither of these she knew well, but she had no recipe. Then she remembered Mrs. Merit and her experience; perhaps she could help her with rye bread, as she was a famous economist.