NTREES.


It would be difficult to describe the anxiety with which that first
"late dinner" was regarded by Ursula. Janey, too, had thrown herself
into it heart and soul, until she received the crushing intimation from
her father, that her company was not expected at this stately meal; a
discovery which altogether extinguished poor Janey, accustomed to be
always in the front whatever occurred, and to whom suggestions of things
that could not be done by a girl who was not "out," had never presented
themselves. She retired to her own room dissolved in tears when this
fearful mandate went forth, and for the rest of the morning was good for
nothing, her eyes being converted into a sort of red pulp, her rough
hair doubly dishevelled, her whole being run into tears. She was of no
more use now to go errands between the kitchen and the drawing-room, or
to read the cookery-book out loud, which was a process upon which Ursula
depended very much, to fix in her mind the exact ingredients and painful
method of preparation of the _entrees_ at which she was toiling. Betsy,
the former maid-of-all-work, now promoted under the title of cook, could
be trusted to roast the saddle of mutton, which, on consideration that
it was "a party," had been thought preferable to a leg, and she could
boil the fish, after a sort, and make good honest family soup, and the
rice-pudding or apple-tart, which was the nearest approach to luxury
indulged in at the Parsonage; but as for _entrees_, Betsy did not know
what they were. She had heard of made dishes indeed, and respectfully
afar off had seen them when she was kitchen-maid at Lady Weston's--the
golden age of her youthful inexperience. But this was so long ago, that
her recollections were rather confusing than useful to Ursula, when she
went downstairs to make her first heroic effort.

"La, Miss, that ain't how cook used to do 'em at Lady Weston's," Betsy
said, looking on with unbelieving eyes. She was sure of this negative,
but she was not sure of anything else, and utterly failed to give any
a