“And we need butter—­”

“Butter again!  Those two pounds gone?”

“There’s a little piece left, not enough, though.  And I’m on my last cake of soap, and we need crackers, and vanilla, and sugar, unless you’re not going to have a dessert, and salad oil—­”

“Just get me a pencil, will you?” This was as usual.  Mrs. Salisbury would pencil a long list, would bite her lips thoughtfully, and sigh as she read it over.

“Asparagus to-night, then.  And, Lizzie, don’t serve so much melted butter with it as you did last time; there must have been a cupful of melted butter.  And, another time, save what little scraps of vegetables there are left; they help out so at lunch—­”

“There wasn’t a saucerful of onions left last night,” Lizzie would assert, “and two cobs of corn, after I’d had my dinner.  You couldn’t do much with those.  And, as for butter on the asparagus”—­Lizzie was very respectful, but her tone would rise aggrievedly—­“it was every bit eaten, Mrs. Salisbury!”

“Yes, I know.  But we mustn’t let these young vandals eat us out of house and home, you know,” the mistress would say, feeling as if she were doing something contemptibly small.  And, worsted, she would return to her paper.  “But I don’t care, we cannot afford it!” Mrs. Salisbury would say to herself, when Lizzie had gone, and very thoughtfully she would write out a check payable to “cash.”  “I used to use up little odds and ends so deliciously, years ago!” she sometimes reflected disconsolately.  “And Kane always says we never live as well now as we did then!  He always praised my dinners.”

Nowadays Mr. Salisbury was not so well satisfied.  Lizzie rang the changes upon roasted and fried meats, boiled and creamed vegetables, baked puddings and canned fruits contentedly enough.  She made cup cake and sponge cake, sponge cake and cup cake all the year round.  Nothing was ever changed, no unexpected flavor ever surprised the palates of the Salisbury family.  May brought strawberry shortcake, December cottage puddings, cold beef always made a stew; creamed codfish was never served without baked potatoes.  The Salisbury table was a duplicate of some millions of other tables, scattered the length and breadth of the land.

“And still the bills go up!” fretted Mrs. Salisbury.

“Well, why don’t you fire her, Sally?” her husband asked, as he had asked of almost every maid they had ever had—­of lazy Annies, and untidy Selmas, and ignorant Katies.  And, as always, Mrs. Salisbury answered patiently: 

“Oh, Kane, what’s the use?  It simply means my going to Miss Crosby’s again, and facing that awful row of them, and beginning that I have three grown children, and no other help—­”

“Mother, have you ever had a perfect maid?” Sandy had asked earnestly years before.  Her mother spent a moment in reflection, arresting the hand with which she was polishing silver.  Alexandra was only sixteen then, and mother and daughter were bridging a gap when there was no maid at all in the Salisbury kitchen.