Cantaloupes with ice. ------ Eggs in tomato cases. Rice patés. Thin bread and butter. Parmesian balls on lettuce, with French dressing. Olives. Wafers. ------ Mint sherbet. ------ Nuts. “Cantyloops! What’s them?” demanded Ellen. [Illustration: CANTYLOOPS! WHAT’S THEM?] Barbara explained. “Oh, mush-melons! Why didn’t you say so? Mush-melons won’t be ripe fer a month. What’s that next thing?” “That’s a new way of serving eggs,” said Barbara; “the recipe’s in the book. It’s simple, and very pretty.” “You can’t serve ’em that way in this town,” grumbled Ellen. “Tomatoes don’t come in cases,—they come in baskets. And as long as there’s a dish in the house where I’m working, I won’t never set a tomato-basket on the table. What’s rice payts!” “The recipes are all in the book: I’ve marked the pages,” said Barbara, with dignity. “Of course, Ellen, if cantaloupes are not in the market, we’ll have to substitute something else. Or perhaps we could get along without that course.” “We might have the ice, without the melons,” suggested Gassy. Barbara glanced up suspiciously, but the sharp little face was innocent. “That is all, then, Ellen. The recipes are given in full, and you will have no trouble in following them. I have ordered all the necessary materials. The rice and the cheese will be here in half an hour. Miss Cecilia will show you where the mint-bed is in the garden.” Ellen’s large freckled face took on an expression of astonishment. “_Who_ will?” she asked. “Miss Cecilia,” responded Barbara. Ellen’s eyes followed Barbara’s glance. “Oh, _Gassy_!” she said. “Didn’t know who you meant, before. Say, Barbara Grafton, I can’t never get up a meal like this, with no meat, and on ironing-day, too. Your ma never has sherbet but Sundays, and then Jack turns the crank fer me. And nuts! Nuts won’t be ripe till October.” “The nuts are already ordered,” said Barbara, turning away. “That will do, Ellen. I’m going upstairs now to do the chamber-work, and after that I shall go to my writing. I don’t want to be disturbed. If any one comes to see me, say that I’m not at home.” “I’ll holler if I want you,” said Ellen, grimly. “No, don’t do that, because it breaks into what I am doing. I shall be downstairs again before luncheon-time, and you can tell me then anything you need. Cecilia, I trust you to see that I am not disturbed for two hours. Don’t call me before twelve o’clock, no matter what happens.” It was long past noon when the last sheet of “The Spirit of the Eternal Ego” slipped from Barbara’s hand, and the pen was dropped. She glanced up at the little clock near the vine-wreathed window. “Ten minutes of one!” she exclaimed; “I must have missed the din—luncheon bell. But my essay is done—hurray!”