vorite dishes here. Round steak prepared in this way is
known in the restaurants as 'Dutch steak,' and commands a high price."
Considerably cheered by this last intelligence, Migwan sped home and got
her prune dessert into the oven and then set to work transforming the
tough steak into a tender morsel.

"What kind of meat is this?" asked her mother when they had taken their
places at the table.

"Guess," said Migwan.

"It tastes like tenderloin," said her mother.

"Guess again," said Migwan gleefully; "it's round steak."

"The butcher must be buying better meat than usual, then," said Mrs.
Gardiner. "I never got such round steak as this out here before."

"And you never will, either," said Migwan, swelling with pride, "if you
leave it to the butcher," and she told how she had treated the steak to
produce the present result.

"I never heard of that before," said her mother, amazed at this simple
culinary trick.

Next the prune whip was brought on and pronounced good by every one and
"bully" by Tom, who ate his in great spoonfuls. "I see I'll have to let
you get the meals after this," said Mrs. Gardiner to Migwan. "You have a
knack of putting things together, which I have not."

Migwan was too tired to write any more that night after the dishes were
done, but she was entirely light-hearted as she wove into her bead band
the symbols of that day's achievements--a broom and a frying pan. She
had learned something that afternoon besides how to prepare beefsteak.
She had waked up to the careless fashion in which the house was being
run, and her head was full of plans for cutting down expenses. Monday
afternoon, on her way home from school, Migwan saw a farmer's wagon
standing in front of the Brewsters' home, and Mrs. Brewster stood at the
curb, buying her winter supply of potatoes.

"Have you put your potatoes in yet?" she asked as Migwan came along.

Migwan stopped. "I don't believe we ever bought them in large
quantities," she answered. "How much are they a bushel?"

"Sixty-five cents," said the farmer. Migwan made a quick mental
calculation. At the rate they had been buying potatoes in two-quart lots
they had been paying a dollar and seventy-five cents a bushel. Migwan
came to a sudden decision.

"Are they all good?" she asked Mrs. Brewster.

"They have always been in the past years," answered Sahwah's mother,
"and I have bought my potatoes from this man for the last six winters."

"How many would it take