forcibly, and
after a little more from the recipe they broke up with noisy mirth.

On the doorstep Nannie paused and looked about her. Puddy's last
extract from the article under discussion was wandering through her
brain, something as a cat wanders through a strange house.

"Order a dressing as rich and as plentiful as you can afford."

Nannie understood this well enough. She was wearing such a dressing at
that very moment, but the next sentence puzzled her.

"If you can't afford the best, heap your fish with crumbs of comfort.
Press some of these into pretty shapes, such as hearts, and roses, and
true lovers' knots. If you have neither the patience nor the skill to
follow these directions, take my advice and don't go a-fishing."

Nannie had never received a caress at home in her life and very few
abroad, for she was not one to form close friendships among the girls.
Her parents had died before she could become acquainted with them, and
the aunt who had reared her was a worldly woman who looked upon her
merely as a valuable piece of social property. Nannie's lack of
popularity was disappointing, but the aunt still hoped that her
unusual beauty would atone for her brusqueness, crudity, and lack of
tact, and she would form a rich alliance. Between her aunt and uncle
there had never been, to Nannie's knowledge, the slightest expression
of affection, and so when one spoke of "hearts and roses" and "true
lovers' knots" in a domestic connection, the words fell strangely upon
the girl's ears.

The sun was streaming through the trees that lined the broad, handsome
avenue as the merry group broke up. Happy children, their dear little
bodies tastefully clothed and their dear little faces wreathed in
smiles, flitted about here and there at play, like pretty elves. Now
and then some one or more of them would run, with shouts of glee, to
welcome a home-coming father.

In the heart of a more womanly, more happily trained girl, all this
would have awakened tender yearnings. It awakened a feeling in
Nannie's heart--just what it meant she could not have told--but this
vague, unused something was soon swept one side by a more comical
image. As she looked at the handsome dwellings she seemed to hear a
voice calling:

"Wives for dinner! wives for dinner!"

And from the household altars there rose the smoke of unique
dishes--domestic fries, feminine roasts, conjugal stews, in highly
colored family jars.

"Come, ducky, come and