Alice’s teacher was a young man who came from Boston. He would be glad to have two pupils instead of one. Lucy was to take piano lessons from Miss Ball, and also on Saturday. But Miss Ball had many pupils who wanted their lessons that day. Lucy would have to go at eight o’clock. This was a chilly hour for a music lesson, but Lucy said she did not mind. They both felt very important with music to carry about the streets. “I shall expect you to practise every day,” said Mother. “You must remember that the lessons cost money, and the money will be wasted if you don’t try hard to learn.” Lucy and Dora felt sure they should never want to do something else instead of practising. Mrs. Merrill said she hoped they wouldn’t. After her first lesson Dora felt quite discouraged. She had expected that Mr. Irons would show her at once how to play. Instead, he spent all the time telling her how to hold her fingers and how to keep the bow in the proper position. He would not let her draw the bow across the strings unless her fingers were just as he wanted them. Dora tried hard, but when Mr. Irons said she had worked long enough and might listen while Alice had her lesson, Dora decided that it would be some time before she could play that fiddle. Alice could really play quite well, and Dora felt more cheerful when she remembered that there had been a time when Alice had to think about her fingers and the way she held the bow. If Alice could learn to do both without thinking much about it, she could learn, too. It is a long step toward learning how to do anything when one realizes that it must be done a little at a time. When Dora reached home that Saturday, Mrs. Merrill was mixing bread and Lucy was perfectly determined to help mix it. She had washed her hands nicely and every time Mrs. Merrill looked the other way Lucy would make dabs at the bread dough. “Lucy,” said Mrs. Merrill, “next summer I will show you how to make bread, but you must leave this alone. You may make some gingerbread if you like.” Lucy flew for the cook-book. She knew which rule Mother used, only Mother never had to look at the book. She got out the bowl and a spoon and the flour and the molasses. “You don’t need to bring out the whole jug,” said Mrs. Merrill. “Pour into a cup what the rule says.” Lucy hadn’t thought of this. It was easier than carrying out the heavy jug. She did everything just as the rule said and didn’t notice that Mother kept an eye on her mixing-bowl. When the gingerbread was put into a nicely buttered pan and safe in the oven, Lucy gave a sigh. “Don’t you wish you could make gingerbread?” she asked Dora, who was paring apples for Mother’s pies. The Hallowe’en pumpkins were already changed into pies and eaten. “I think I could make it,” said Dora. Lucy was surprised, for Dora didn’t often say things like that. “Mother, _could_ she?” she asked Mrs. Merrill. “Anybody who can read can use a cook-book, and anybody with common sense can cook,” said Mother.