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"My dearest love, the crust well earned--"
"O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are
married, Jip must have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he'll die."
I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to
her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity.
When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by
asking me to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to
show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought
the volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old
housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a
pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practice housekeeping
with.
But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her
cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.


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