She  was  a  sort  of  continual  Sunday  child,  with
an  air  of  church  and  cold  dinner  and  sermon-
reading  and  hymn-singing  and  early  bed.  No-
body could  fear,  as  for  some  impulsive,  reckless
little  creature,  that  she  would  come  to  a  bad
end.  Nancy  said  no  one  could  imagine  her  as
coming  to  anything,  not  even  an  end !

"You  never  let  mother  hear  you  say  these
things,  Nancy,"  Kathleen  remarked  once,  'but
really  and  truly  it's  just  as  bad  to  say  them  at
all,  when  you  know  she  would  n't  approve.'

"My  present  object  is  to  be  as  good  as  gold
in  mother's  eyes,  but  there  I  stop!'  retorted
Nancy  cheerfully.  "Pretty  soon  I  shall  get
virtuous  enough  to  go  a  step  further  and  en-
deavor to  please  the  angels,  —  not  Julia's  cast-
iron  angels,  but  the  other  angels,  who  understand
and  are  patient,  because  they  remember  our
frames  and  know  that  being  dust  we  are  likely
to  be  dusty  once  in  a  while.  Julia  was  n't  made
of  dust.  She  was  made  of  —  let  me  see  -  -  of
skim  milk  and  baked  custard  (the  watery  kind)
and  rice  flour  and  gelatine,  with  a  very  little
piece  of  overripe  banana,  —  not  enough  to
flavor,  just  enough  to  sicken.  Stir  this  up  with
weak  barley  water  without  putting  in  a  trace
of  salt,  sugar,  spice,  or  pepper,  set  it  in  a  cool

118


THE  PINK  OF  PERFECTION


oven,  take  it  out  before  it  is  done,  and  you  will
get  Julia.'1

Nancy  was  triumphant  over  this  recipe  for
making  Julias,  only  regretting  that  she  could
never  show  it  to  her  mother,  who,  if  critical,
was  always  most  appreciative.  She  did  send  it
in  a  letter  to  the  Admiral,  off  in  China,  and  he,
being  "none  too  good  for  human  nature's  daily
food,'*  enjoyed  it  hugely  and  never  scolded  her
at  all.
