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I am not. I'll bet it was fine. It was that cake we took so
much trouble with. The yeast went in all right, but something else
went wrong. It was not put to soak, or to sizzle, in the oven, or
whatever it was. Like my single-blessed pancake, it did not rise,
and in the darkness before I came home she smuggled it out of the
house; only to behold, with a mortification that endures to this
day, the neighbor-woman who had taken such an interest in our
young housekeeping, examining it carefully in the ash-barrel next
morning. People _are_ curious. But they were welcome to all they
could spy out concerning our household. They discovered there, if
they looked right, the sweetest and altogether the bravest little
housekeeper in all the world. And what does a cake matter, or a
hen, or twenty, when only the housekeeper is right?
In my editorial enthusiasm for the new plan there was no doubtful
note. The "beats" got a rest for a season while I transferred my
attention to the boarding-house. My wife teases me yet with those
mighty onslaughts on the new enemy.


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