Fan had only not been equal to getting up an enthusiasm for the contents of pans and trays, in well-raised loaves and crisp biscuits, and she did not see that she was called upon—good housekeeper though she was—to be one of the severely initiated in the inner mysteries of bread made with or without yeast, steamed or not steamed. She was guilty of greater wilful ignorance in the matter of bread than in any other domestic question; though of course she was acquainted with such an A B C piece of knowledge as how to distinguish a cottage from a pan loaf when she saw them, while she was perfectly aware that the Polley girls had a joke among them and their companions, of her affected ignorance in this particular. It had certainly vexed Fan when her father, in his satisfaction with his bread, would illustrate its excellence by lightly patting the crust or gently pinching the crumb. She confessed to herself she hated to see him on an emergency, when he had sent the shopman out and no other man or boy was in the way, quietly step behind the counter, and in the innocence of his heart, sell a twopenny loaf to a working woman or a halfpenny biscuit to a child. And Fan had the conviction that rather than witness Oliver, with his college breeding, and the gentleman-like character impressed on his very twists and grimaces, demean himself to dispense the staff of life, as his father had done before him, to his fellow-townspeople, she would herself go behind the counter and wait on the mocking public. It is to be feared that Fan would have offered cakes and buns with a tragedy air which would have repelled all save the most persistent buyer.