“Now I lay the bird aside, and prepare the giblets, which make gravy. You see this small, dark-green bladder attached to the liver? That is the gall. I cut it off, but am careful to leave a bit of the liver with it to avoid breaking. Put the liver in cold water. This hard, silvery-blue lump is the gizzard; it must be freed from all skin and strings; and by cutting it carefully on the _wide_ side, without penetrating the inner skin, it can be peeled off, leaving the inside whole, thus avoiding the usual mess. This outer flesh throw into the water with the liver. Now for the feet.” Molly put them in a quart bowl, and poured water from the kettle—which she was careful to see was _actually boiling_—upon them, covering them all over. “Now, Marta, if you do this yourself, never attempt to scald with water that is not boiling, however near the point it may be; and do not put them in hot water and set them on the stove to come to the boiling-point. Either of these methods will so _set_ the skin that it will not come off without the flesh, while these, you see, will peel easily enough.” She had taken, as she spoke, a clean cloth in one hand, and with a fork lifted one of the feet out of the hot water, then quickly rubbed the thin, yellow skin, which came off as readily as the skin from a ripe, scalded tomato; then she bent back each nail and that, too, came off, leaving the foot delicate, white, and clean. The rest were done in the same way. “The only thing necessary is great quickness; the skin gets ‘set’ as the water cools. “You can put the fowl away now till to-morrow, Marta, but the giblets I will put on to stew for gravy. Here are the feet, the heart, the neck, gizzard, and liver, all well cleaned. They need a pint of water, a slice of onion, a piece of carrot, as big as your thumb, cut in it, half a tea-spoonful of salt, and a sprig of parsley. Now if I had not these vegetables in the house, I should do without; but having them, the gravy will be much better. Let these giblets stew down very slowly, till only half remains; then strain, and you will find it is a solid jelly, when cold. “Ah, Marta, what is the matter with the bread? and how comes it so late to-day?” Marta was just taking from the oven the one loaf which formed the tri-weekly baking, and at a glance Molly knew it was a failure. It was a peculiar color,—a drab tone, instead of the bright, yellow brown it should have been,—and it looked flat. “That I don’t understand,” said Marta; “it seemed to-day as if it would never rise.” It must here be said that after Molly showed Marta bread-making, her bread had been very good. She had made it three times so well that Molly thought that part of her teaching was over. This was the fourth time, and it was evidently a failure.