sides, he felt morally responsible for that inevitable week of privation, and determined to stand by poor Bee and see her through. All efforts to trace the lost money had been fruitless, and they just had to make the best of it; so they held a final consultation as the fatal fourth week drew near.
“Can you do it?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“Ye-es,” said Reatrice, doubtfully. “I ‘ve been compasing a sort of bill of fare which I ’m going to follow as well as I can. If we don’t eat over the margin, we may pull through.”
‘Let ‘s see it.”
Beatrice handed him a neatly written sheet of paper, “I ’m going to tack that up as a guide, philosopher, and friend,” she said, laughing.
“Roast beef,” read Tom. “You've got that down for Sunday, Monday, Thursday, and Friday—same piece?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Two roasts—first day, hot; second day, cold; third day, minced; fourth day, soup”— she checked them off on her fingers with a very important air.
“Oh!” said Tom, with respectful awe, “Here's another item—potatoes; and another four days’ investment. How will you relieve the monotony?”
“Boil them, cream them, bake them, fry them,” returned Beatrice, with professional brevity. “You can’t complain, Tom; you suggested one week of skimpiness—and—and—”
“Don’t mention that ten-dollar gold piece,” said Tom, shaking a threatening forefinger.
“A minute later, the contents lay in a heap on the table.”
“Thursday and Friday will be rather scrappy,’ I ’m afraid. Mary suggests stews—”
“Look here,” observed Tom, suspiciously; “have you told Mary anything?”
“Of course,” said Bee; “one has to take the cook into one’s confidence.”
“What did you tell her?”—wrathfully.
“Oh, I said that—that as mother would be home on Saturday, and we wanted to have a big dinner, we would n't do too much cooking this week,” and Beatrice burst into irresistible laughter at Tom's blank expression.
But it was a hard week, nevertheless, and