of newspaper work have given you a great knowledge of
human nature. Then too, there is your gift of humor. Surely that is a
combination which should make your work acceptable to the magazines.
Never in my life have I seen so many magazines as here in the United
States. But hundreds! Thousands!"

"Me!" I exploded--"A real writer lady! No more interviews with
actresses! No more slushy Sunday specials! No more teary tales! Oh, my!
When may I begin? To-morrow? You know I brought my typewriter with me.
I've almost forgotten where the letters are on the keyboard."

"Wait, wait; not so fast! In a month or two, perhaps. But first must
come other things outdoor things. Also housework."

"Housework!" I echoed, feebly.

"Naturlich. A little dusting, a little scrubbing, a little sweeping, a
little cooking. The finest kind of indoor exercise. Later you may write
a little--but very little. Run and play out of doors with the children.
When I see you again you will have roses in your cheeks like the German
girls, yes?"

"Yes," I echoed, meekly, "I wonder how Frieda will like my elephantine
efforts at assisting with the housework. If she gives notice, Norah will
be lost to you."

But Frieda did not give notice. After I had helped her clean the kitchen
and the pantry I noticed an expression of deepest pity overspreading her
lumpy features. The expression became almost one of agony as she watched
me roll out some noodles for soup, and delve into the sticky mysteries
of a new kind of cake.

Max says that for a poor working girl who hasn't had time to cultivate
the domestic graces, my cakes are a distinct triumph. Sis sniffs at
that, and mutters something about cups of raisins and nuts and citron
hiding a multitude of batter sins. She never allows the Spalpeens to
eat my cakes, and on my baking days they are usually sent from the table
howling. Norah declares, severely, that she is going to hide the Green
Cook Book. The Green Cook Book is a German one. Norah bought it in
deference to Max's love of German cookery. It is called Aunt Julchen's
cook book, and the author, between hints as to flour and butter, gets
delightfully chummy with her pupil. Her cakes are proud, rich cakes. She
orders grandly:

"Now throw in the yolks of twelve eggs; one-fourth of a pound
of almonds; two pounds of raisins; a pound of citron; a pound of
orange-peel."

As if that were not enough, there follow minor instructions as to
trifles like ounces of wal