their contents through a small hole in one end, hopelessly mixing the
whites and yolks, and leaving them useless for fine cookery.

No wonder, then, that Miss Deborah's face beamed with pride. But Miss
Ruth's showed nothing but contempt. "That--that--barn-door dish!" she
ejaculated.

"Barn-door?" faltered Miss Deborah.

"Barn-yard, I mean," said her sister sternly. "The idea of having such
a thing! Easter is the only excuse for it. It is undignified,--it is
absurd,--it is--it is preposterous!"

"It is good," Miss Deborah maintained stoutly.

"I don't deny that," said Miss Ruth, thinking they would have it for
dinner the next day, and perhaps the next also,--for it takes more
than one day for a family of two to eat up the remnants of a dinner
party,--"but you must see it is out of place at a formal dinner. It
must not appear."

Discussion was useless. Each was determined, for each felt her particular
province had been invaded. And each carried her point. The dish did not
appear on the table, yet every guest was asked if he or she would have
some "Sicituradastra"--for to the housemaid it was one word--which was on
the sideboard.

But the anxieties of the dinner were not over even when the table was as
beautiful and stately as could be desired, and Miss Deborah was conscious
that every dish was perfect. The two little ladies, tired, but satisfied,