her as she crossed the room, dropped her book
on to the table, and turned toward the shining
black stove.

There was an excellent fire. Glowing points
of light showed that only a good draft was needed
to make the whole mass of coal red-hot. Billy,
however, did not know this. Her experience of
fires was confined to burning wood in open grates
--and wood in open grates had to be poked to
make it red and glowing. With confident alacrity
now, therefore, Billy caught up the poker, thrust
it into the mass of coals and gave them a fine
stirring up. Then she set back the lid of the
stove and went to hunt up the ingredients for
her dinner.

By the time Billy had searched five minutes
and found no chicken, no oysters, and no halibut,
it occurred to her that her larder was not,
after all, an open market, and that one's provisions
must be especially ordered to fit one's needs.
As to ordering them now--Billy glanced at the
clock and shook her head.

``It's almost five, already, and they'd never
get here in time,'' she sighed regretfully. ``I'll
have to have something else.''

Billy looked now, not for what she wanted, but