hat was Miss Jenny's
cleverness when she chucked the cosy at Alf." And when Emmy said in this
reflective silence of animosity the name "Alf" she drew a deep breath
and looked straight up at Jenny with inscrutable eyes of pain.

vi

The stew being finished, Emmy collected the plates, and retired once
again to the scullery. Now did Jenny show afresh that curiosity whose
first flush had been so ill-satisfied by the meat course. When, however,
Emmy reappeared with that most domestic of sweets, a bread pudding,
Jenny's face fell once more; for of all dishes she most abominated bread
pudding. Under her breath she adversely commented.

"Oh lor!" she whispered. "Stew and b.p. What a life!"

Emmy, not hearing, but second sighted on such matters, shot a malevolent
glance from her place. In an awful voice, intended to be a trifle arch,
she addressed her father.

"Bready butter pudding, Pa?" she inquired. The old man whinnied with
delight, and Emmy was appeased. She had one satisfied client, at any
rate. She cut into the pudding with a knife, producing wedges with a
dexterous hand.

"Hey ho!" observed Jenny to herself, tastelessly beginning the work of
laborious demolition.

"Jenny thinks it's common. She ought to have the job of getting the
meals!" cried Emmy, bitterly, obliquely attacking her sister by talking
at her. "Something to talk about then!" she sneered with chagrin, up in
arms at a criticism.

"Well, the truth is," drawled Jenny.... "If you want it ... I don't like
bread pudding." Somehow she had never said that before, in all the
years; but it seemed to her that bread pudding was like ashes in the
mouth. It was like duty, or funerals, or ... stew.

"The stuff's _got_ to be finished up!" flared Emmy defiantly, with a
sense of being adjudged inferior because she had dutifully habituated
herself to the appreciation of bread pudding. "You might think of that!
What else am I to do?"

"That's just it, old girl. Just why I don't like it. I just _hate_ to
feel I'm finishing it up. Same with stew. I know it's been something
else first. It's not _fresh_. Same old thing, week in, week out.
Finishing up the scraps!"

"Proud stomach!" A quick flush came into Emmy's cheeks; and tears
started to her eyes.

"Perhaps it is. Oh, but Em! Don't you feel like that
yourself.... Sometimes? O-o-h!..." She drawled the word wearily. "Oh
for a bit more money! Then we could give stew to the cat's-meat man
and bread to old Thomps