The veal stock Molly had carefully skimmed and strained in the morning, and intended to have a white soup for dinner. There was about a quart of strong jelly. One pint she put aside. It was so valuable that she did not mean to use a tea-spoonful more than necessary; the pint, with half a pint of milk, would be all that was required for soup; but as she had neither asparagus tops nor mushrooms nor celery to put in it, and veal soup is apt to be a little insipid without, she decided on forcemeat balls, made in the following way: To a large tea-spoonful of croquette mixture she added one of finely chopped parsley, as much thyme as would go on the end of a penknife, and a dessert-spoonful of bread crumbs; she beat an egg, and used enough only to make the whole into a soft paste; this she seasoned rather highly with pepper and salt, and made into little balls not larger than marbles, and they were set away till wanted. As the soup was one Marta could not be expected to make, Molly went into the kitchen herself, half an hour before dinner, to do it; indeed, although she had left the cooking to Marta pretty much, she could not risk Harry’s comfort by waiting for the dinner to straggle in as Marta would have had it. This seemed her chief failing, an inability to see the necessity of dishing up quickly. After she had cooked a thing well, she ran the risk of spoiling it by her slowness in getting it on the table. No mishap had yet occurred, because Molly was on hand to rescue; but white sauce was left in the saucepan with risk of burning, and vegetables, after they were dressed, the same; but Molly hoped that, in a few weeks, seeing the importance she herself attached to time might have its effect on Marta. The pint of veal stock, flavored, it will be remembered, with the vegetables boiled in it the day before, was put on to boil, and in a small saucepan she put a table-spoonful of butter and a scant one of flour, and stirred them together till they bubbled. She allowed them to cook together _for a minute_, stirring all the time, and called Marta’s attention to the fact. “The white sauce you made last, Marta, although very smooth, had a little raw taste; this was because you added the milk before the flour was cooked sufficiently in the butter,—you put it in as soon as it bubbled.” “I was afraid it would burn.” “Of course you must not let it do that, but you see, once it bubbles, I draw the saucepan to a cooler part and stir till the flour is on the point of changing color, then I quickly add the milk or broth. The sauce will be an ivory white instead of the rather dead white that even fairly good sauce often is.”