“Don’t talk so, Mr. Smith.  There is no reason in the world why a good cook should not be as faultless as any one else.”

Even while I said this, certain misgivings intruded themselves.  My husband went to his store soon after.

About three o’clock Margaret presented herself, all dressed to go out, and said that she was going to see her sister, but would be back in time to get tea.

She came back, as she promised, but, alas for my good cook!  The fault appeared.  She was so much intoxicated that, in attempting to lift the kettle from the fire, she let it fall, and came near scalding herself dreadfully.  Oh, dear!  I shall never forget the sad disappointment of that hour.  How the pleasant images of good dinners and comfortable breakfasts and suppers faded from my vision.  The old trouble was to come back again, for the faultless cook had manifested a fault that vitiated, for us, all her good qualities.

On the next day, I told Margaret that we must part; but she begged so hard to be kept in her place, and promised good behaviour in future so earnestly, that I was prevailed on to try her again.  It was of no use, however—­in less than a week she was drunk again, and I had to let her go.

After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and dried roast beef to our hearts’ content; while such luxuries as muffins, hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our uninviting table.

My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually afraid to show my face in the kitchen.  I bore with her until patience was no longer a virtue, and then she went.

Biddy, who took charge of my “kitchen cabinet,” a year or so afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit.  But, alas!  Biddy “kept a room;” and so many strange disappearances of bars of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place, that I was forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was simply a store room for the surplussage of mine.  Some pretty strong evidence on this point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was particularly forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never accused her of being wanting in that inestimable virtue.

Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough.  Or, I should rather say, are musing enough to think about:  they were rather annoying at the time of their occurrence.  One of these experiences I will relate.  I had obtained a “treasure” in a new cook, who was not only good tempered and cleanly, but understood her business reasonably well.  Kitty was a little different from former incumbents of her office in this, that she took an interest in reading, and generally dipped into the morning paper before it found its way up stairs.  To this, of course, I had no objection, but was rather pleased to see it.  Time, however, which proves all things, showed my cook to be rather too literary in her inclinations.  I often found her reading, when it was but reasonable for me to expect that she would be working; and overdone or burnt dishes occasionally marked the degree in which her mind was absorbed in her literary pleasures, which I discovered in time, were not of the highest order-such books as the “Mysteries of Paris” furnishing the aliment that fed her imagination.