egion
of romance than Miss Braddon can take her into. She will learn that it
is her province to renew her husband physically and mentally by
dexterously depositing the right kind of nutriment upon the inward,
invisible frame. The wonders of science shall supersede then, for her,
the wonders of romance. To feed the sacred fire of life will become a
noble office; she will count it as honorable, in its place, to make a
fine soup or a delicate Charlotte Russe as to play a Beethoven sonata
or read a German classic.

Truly, I think that it is almost a sin for a housekeeper with all her
senses to be ignorant of the laws of chemistry affecting food. Yet the
subject is so large and complicated that I can only indicate its
importance; but I am sure that women of affection and intelligence who
may now for the first time accept the thought, will follow my hints to
all their manifold conclusions. One of these conclusions is so
important that I cannot avoid directing special attention to it,--the
moral effect of proper food.

Do not doubt that all through life high things depend on low ones; and
in this matter it must be evident to every observing woman that food
is often the _nerve_ of our highest social affections. There is an
acute domestic disorder which Dr. Marshall Hall used to call "the
temper disease." Need I point out to wives the wonderful sympathy
between this disease and the dining-table? Do they not know that a
fretful, belated, ill-cooked breakfast has the power to take all the
energy out of a sensitively organized man, and make his entire day an
uncomfortable failure?

On the contrary, a cheerful room, a snowy cloth, coffee "with the
aroma in," bread whose amber crust and light, white crumb is a
picture, in short, a well-appointed, quiet, comfortable first meal has
in it some subtle influence of strength and inspiration for work. I
have seen men rise from such tables _joyful_--full of such gratitude
and hope as I can well believe only found expression in that silent
uplifting of the heart to God which is, after all, our purest prayer.

Then when at evening he returns weary, faint and hungry, a fine sonata
or an exquisite painting will not much comfort him. I even doubt
whether a religious service could profitably take the place of his
dinner; for we _know_, if we will acknowledge it, that the importunate
demands of the flesh do cry down the still small voice of devotion.
But how different we feel after eating; the