Barbara, with the can in one hand and the opener in the other, was hotly endeavoring to effect a combination of the two, with a notable lack of success. At first she held the can in the air, and attempted to punch a hole in it with the can-opener; but as this seemed an entirely futile course, she gave it up, and adopted a new method of attack. When Charles arrived upon the scene of action, she placed the can firmly on the table, and gave it a vicious stab with her knife. The tin yielded; Barbara smiled, and all was proceeding merrily, when a sudden, inexplicable twist jerked can and can-opener out of her hand and landed them both on the floor. Barbara forgot herself, and stamped her foot forcibly. “Where’s Mrs. Harris?” inquired the Kid, with a look of fearful anticipation gathering in his eyes. No reply. His sister picked up the can, and succeeded in boring a small hole in its top. “Say, where’s Mrs. Harris?” repeated the little boy, anxiously. “Charles,” said Barbara, looking at the child for the first time,—“mercy, how dirty you are!—Charles, dinner will be ready soon. Mrs. Harris has left us—” She stopped short in astonishment. The Kid had thrown himself prone upon the floor, and had broken into loud wails. “What is it? What is it?” she cried, running to him and trying to pull him up from the floor. The Kid held his tough little body down, and wept copiously. Barbara tried sternness. “Charles, get up this minute,” she commanded, “and tell me what is the matter.” The Kid lifted a woe-begone face to his sister. “She’s gone,” he said, “and we can’t ever have any more beefsteak, or lamb with gravy.” “Was that what you were crying for?” asked Barbara, coldly. “Charles, I am disgusted with you. Now you get up and wash your hands, and dinner will soon be ready.” She sighed as she carried in the salmon, extracted from the hole in the can in minute sections, so that it resembled a pile of sawdust rather than the body of a fish. She found herself wishing that it had been possible to reconcile her desires and Mrs. Harris’s commands. It was a melancholy family that partook of the pulverized fish, fried potatoes, bread, butter, and bananas, which constituted Barbara’s effort. “Oh dear!” sighed Jack, as he took his seat. “Variety is the spice of life; we certainly have that, so I suppose you think we don’t care for the other spices, having left the pepper-cellar in the pantry. I always did like pepper on fried potatoes.” David lifted his large blue eyes and let them rest on his elder sister. “You must be like Cinderella’s sisters,” he said reflectively. “Had such an awful temper,—couldn’t anybody live with ’em.”