Gassy came, slowly and reluctantly. She rose from the floor, back foremost, keeping her face assiduously turned away from her sister. “I don’t like to see you cry—” “Wasn’t crying,” stiffened Gassy, with a sob. “I mean I don’t like to have you tucked away in here, when I need you outside. I want your help, little girl.” “What for?” demanded Gassy, suspiciously. “Oh, just to have you about, to talk to,” said Barbara. “Come on out with me, and help me plan the lunch.” “Lunch? Are we goin’ to have a picnic?” asked Gassy, seating herself with her proud little face turned toward the window. “No; but we’re going to have dinner at night while mother’s away. And Cecilia, how would you like to turn vegetarian?” “Just eat vegetables?” “Yes; it’s much more hygienic.” “No meat at all?” “No; we eat altogether too much flesh.” “It would be cheaper to board at a livery stable,” said Gassy. “And healthier, too, I think. I’ve gone without meat voluntarily for three whole years, and I have been in perfect physical condition. It’s a help mentally, too. And diet isn’t restricted if you substitute eggs and nuts and fruit for meat.” Nuts and fruit sounded good to Gassy. “All right,” she said; “I’d like to try it. But we can’t do it yet awhile; we’re working out a bill at the butcher’s. His wife broke her collarbone last year, and he’s paying the doctor’s bill in meat. Besides, what will Ellen say?” Barbara wondered, herself. But she was too proud to admit her foreboding. “Ellen draws her salary” (college settlement lessons forbade her using the term “wages”) “for following our wishes—” “Then she doesn’t earn it,” interrupted Gassy. “And I’m sure she could find no objection to any decision of ours as to the best kind of food. Will you ask her to come here, Cecilia, as soon as she gets her dishes washed? I’ll have the menu ready for her by that time.” Miss Parloa’s cook-book, which Barbara took down from the shelf to assist her in her task, was not a vegetarian; but memories of her self-imposed college meals still lingered. By the time Ellen’s lumbering step was heard in the back hall the menu was ready, neatly written upon the first page of a new little blank-book. “I wuz down in the cellar,” stated Ellen, “and I can’t leave my work to come every time I’m wanted. Just holler the things down to me. Me and your ma has an understanding about that.” “If you come in here after the dish-washing every morning, Ellen, you won’t have to make an extra trip upstairs,” said Barbara, in the approved college-settlement tone. “I have no desire to demand unnecessary service from you. I shall always have the menu for the day ready for you at this hour. This is for to-day: while mother is gone we shall have dinner at night, and luncheon at noon.” Ellen’s expression was not wholly encouraging, as she took the little book. It read:—