herefore, after the inauguration of the new household,
there was trouble in the camp. Sour bread had appeared on the table;
bitter, acrid coffee had shocked and astonished the palate; lint had
been observed on tumblers, and the spoons had sometimes dingy streaks
on the brightness of their first bridal polish; beds were detected
made shockingly awry: and Marianne came burning with indignation to
her mother.

"Such a little family as we have, and two strong girls," said
she,--"everything ought to be perfect; there is really nothing to do.
Think of a whole batch of bread absolutely sour! and when I gave that
away, then this morning another exactly like it! and when I talked to
cook about it, she said she had lived in this and that family, and her
bread had always been praised as equal to the baker's!"

"I don't doubt she is right," said I. "Many families never have
anything but sour bread from one end of the year to the other, eating
it unperceiving, and with good cheer; and they buy also sour bread of
the baker, with like approbation,--lightness being in their estimation
the only virtue necessary in the article."

"Could you not correct her fault?" suggested my wife.

"I have done all I can. I told her we could not have such bread, that
it was dreadful; Bob says it would give him the dyspepsia in a week;
and then she went and made exactly the same! It seems to me mere
willfulness."

"But," said I, "suppose, instead of such general directions, you
should analyze her proceedings and find out just where she makes her
mistake: is the root of the trouble in the yeast, or in the time she
begins it, letting it rise too long?--the time, you know, should vary
so much with the temperature of the weather."

"As to that," said Marianne, "I know nothing. I never noticed; it
never was my business to make bread; it always seemed quite a simple
process, mixing yeast and flour and kneading it; and our bread at home
was always good."

"It seems, then, my dear, that you have come to your profession
without even having studied it."

My wife smiled and said,--

"You know, Marianne, I proposed to you to be our family bread-maker
for one month of the year before you married."

"Yes, mamma, I remember; but I was like other girls: I thought there
was no need of it. I never liked to do such things; perhaps I had
better have done it."

"You certainly had," said I, "for the first business of a housekeeper
in America is that of a teach