twice as much
time as was necessary. Yet afterwards, when accustomedness had brought
its reward of speed, there was still for Billy no time; for increased
knowledge had only opened the way to other paths, untrodden and
alluring. Study of cookbooks had led to the study of food values. Billy
discovered suddenly that potatoes, beef, onions, oranges, and puddings
were something besides vegetables, meat, fruit, and dessert. They
possessed attributes known as proteids, fats, and carbohydrates. Faint
memories of long forgotten school days hinted that these terms had been
heard before; but never, Billy was sure, had she fully realized what
they meant.

It was at this juncture that Billy ran across a book entitled "Correct
Eating for Efficiency." She bought it at once, and carried it home
in triumph. It proved to be a marvelous book. Billy had not read two
chapters before she began to wonder how the family had managed to live
thus far with any sort of success, in the face of their dense ignorance
and her own criminal carelessness concerning their daily bill of fare.

At dinner that night Billy told Bertram and William of her discovery,
and, with growing excitement, dilated on the wonderful good that it was
to bring to them.

"Why, you don't know, you can't imagine what a treasure it is!" she
exclaimed. "It gives a complete table for the exact balancing of food."

"For what?" demanded Bertram, glancing up.

"The exact balancing of food; and this book says that's the biggest
problem that modern scientists have to solve."

"Humph!" shrugged Bertram. "Well, you just balance my food to my hunger,
and I'll agree not to complain."

"Oh, but, Bertram, it's serious, really," urged Billy, looking genuinely
distressed. "Why, it says that what you eat goes to make up what you
are. It makes your vital energies. Your brain power and your body
power come from what you eat. Don't you see? If you're going to paint
a picture you need something different from what you would if you were
going to--to saw wood; and what this book tells is--is what I ought to
give you to make you do each one, I should think, from what I've read
so far. Now don't you see how important it is? What if I should give you
the saw-wood kind of a breakfast when you were just going up-stairs to
paint all day? And what if I should give Uncle William a--a soldier's
breakfast when all he is going to do is to go down on State Street and
sit still all day?"

"But--but, my