If we wish the people for whom we keep house to be well and happy, and good, we shall plan to make them so, as earnestly and definitely as if we were making a train schedule, or drawing the plans of a house, or writing the outline of a book.

The object of a housekeeping plan may be an ideal, but the plan is based on a definite, practical fact—the amount of income. The plan itself is the record of the choices made in the outlay of that amount of income.

The first thing for a family to do when they wish to make a plan, is to impress on their minds, not what they think they will have or what they think they ought to have, but the definite amount of money which they have. Some people gamble who do not go to races or play cards. They bet on futurity by spending something they expect to make, or risk a purchase on the security of Aunt Maria's usual Christmas present. The indications of this sort of gambling are the casual remarks one hears too often; "I just had to have it," or "We could not keep up our position without it," or, "I can't have my children dressed like beggars," or "It was awfully expensive, but I will save on something else." They are silly words and not honest. Silly, because they mean that some momentary self-indulgence has been thought worth the price of long unrest and anxiety; not honest, because if people have what they cannot pay for, they have what some one else has paid for as truly as if they had carried off a parcel belonging to the person standing beside them at a counter. In that matter of Aunt Maria, there is an extra offense. A gift should bring some special pleasure, or meet some special emergency. Counted on, or spent beforehand, it gives no happy surprise, no unexpected pleasure or relief; and what is worse, Aunt Maria gets no more happiness from making the gift than she would from paying the interest on a mortgage. Counting on gifts is a mean trick. If a child's parents do this, they cannot reasonably blame him for calculating the inheritance he will acquire at their death.

The income from some kinds of work is of necessity uncertain. This makes the housekeeping plan especially difficult. Probably the wisest way to meet this is to pretend that one's income is an amount somewhat under one's brightest hopes, and to live on that amount. In case of a disappointment, there is not then so large a deficit to struggle with; or, if the hopes come true, the surplus can very easily be put into a needed garment or a needed pleasure, or perhaps into the savings bank. Some people manage uncertain incomes by the month instead of the year. The trouble with this is that there is likely to be "always a feast or a famine," and that is demoralizing. As far as possible, a family should have an established style of living, to be changed only gradually, as an assured income increases.

This thing called the style of living is the insidious, untiring rival of that hard, cold fact, the amount of income. The two are forever quarrelling. Logically, the amount of income should settle the style of living, but often people spend weary lives trying to stretch the hard fact to fit its ever-increasing rival. This conflict is the source of most household troubles, and quarrels, and sorrows. What is the matter? Why is one less ashamed to wear one's heart on one's sleeve than a patch? Why would you rather owe the grocer, than say to your friend, "I can't afford it?" Why, when I say I am not ashamed to be poor, does the blood rise in my cheeks to belie my words? Poverty is not a badge of failure and laziness. It is often a decoration for high principle, or for noble self-sacrifice,—it is the lady-love of saints.

Very soon and very often in housekeeping, whatever may be the income, the conflict will arise between needs and wants and the financial ability to supply them. For this struggle we must gather our common sense and courage. They will help us to choose the things which really matter, and to laugh at ourselves for pretending to have what we have not.

Some husbands and wives make the financial plans of the family together. In other cases, the husband decides what amount of the income should be spent on the table, and the wife plans only the expenditure of that. The households in which the wife buys and the husband pays without consultation or agreement, exist, but let us hope they are few. Then, there is the household in which the woman is financier, and the man lives on an allowance. And, of course, there are a great number of households which are not complete families, but are groups of people, related or unrelated, who make their homes together, and in which the division of income is made by one person, or by the group, as they wish or are compelled by circumstances.

Plans for a whole income are considered here because they include the problems and details of less elaborate plans.

As has been said, the first thing for a family to do is to find out their definite income, irrespective of Aunt Maria. Incomes of all sizes are lived on in some way. The way which their income will cover, is the style of living suitable for a family. If the family income pinches, however, and there is some way of increasing it which does not destroy the home life, nor work some member of the family to death, then it is well to take that way. But only in cases verging on starvation, should an increase in income be made by the homemaker leaving her housekeeping, or the breadwinner working eighteen hours a day.

When the amount of the income is found out, the next thing is to divide it among the family needs in a reasonable proportion. This proportion is decided in the first place according to necessity, and in the second, according to taste.

Let us take for illustration a family with an income of $2,000 a year. And then let us take, from Mrs. Ellen H. Richards's book called "The Cost of Living," the following proportions for an income of that amount.

Translated into dollars this is:

The next thing is to find out whether this is a possible proportion for us, if this income is our own.

Food, $500 a year, $9.61 a week, $1.37 a day—we shall probably think this a possible allowance.

Rent $400 a year, $33 a month—here there may be a difficulty.

If we own a house in a country town or a suburb, we can probably pay the taxes and make repairs, and have something left from $400. If we rent a house in a country town or in a not too popular suburb we can perhaps get it for less than $400, but in the latter case, the remainder may need to be used in carfares if some member of the family has to go to the city every day. If we live in a flat in a large city, it is an uninviting one that can be had for $33 a month, and even so, nothing is left for carfares. Regular carfares are usually reckoned in the department with the rent, because the place where one's home is situated determines their amount.

Here are two cases, then, in which the proportion for rent does not work. The first, in which there is more money than is necessary to provide a dwelling, is easily arranged. The surplus can be used for more clothes, or more "help," or to satisfy more of the unfailing supply of miscellaneous needs, or it can be put by for future needs.

The second case, in which we feel we must have a $40 flat and have only $33 with which to pay for it, is not as hopeless as it looks. For the next thing in the table of proportions is $300 a year for running expenses, that is, wages, fuel, light, water, etc. Here is at once a partial solution of the rent difficulty. In that forty-dollar flat, heat and water are supplied. If we use gas for cooking, $7 a month will be an average gas bill for a careful family, that is $84 a year. This amount will likewise cover the expense if we use gas for light and coal for the range. Then if we pay three dollars a week to an inexperienced girl, or $1.50 a day for two days a week to a combination washerwoman and scrubwoman, that will be $156 a year. Our running expenses will then be $240 a year. The $60 saved will pay $5 a month on the rent, and we shall then need only $2 a month more to secure the forty-dollar flat.

Next, $300 for clothes. In a year when things have lasted over, we may be able to get the $2 a month for the rent from this department. If, on the contrary, there is a new overcoat, or a new street dress to buy, or a new member of the family to clothe, then it cannot be spared.

The next division is $500 for holidays, recreations, books, charity, savings, doctors' bills and all unclassified expenses. This is the division which is most difficult to manage. If we think we cannot spare that $24 from the clothes department, we shall need to consider very carefully whether we take it from this, or from the food department. We shall have to consider the price of food in the neighbourhood; the health of the family; how much they need a holiday; whether there is any special purpose for which we must save; whether there is some piece of furniture much needed; whether there is a present which we greatly desire to give. And these are only samples of the things which will need to be considered. A choice must be made, though, however difficult, for when one item of expenditure in the family life is exceptionally large, there is but one thing to do, that is, to decide, reasonably and carefully, in what other department of living the expenditure can be lessened.

In this case of a high rent which has just been described, see in the table below what has happened.

The high rent is balanced by a saving in running expenses and in some item of miscellaneous expense.

This is merely a suggestion of the way in which a housekeeping plan is worked out. Every family has its own needs and wants, and its income must be proportioned to suit them as far as possible. If your income is larger than the one used as an example, you will find that the department of miscellaneous expenses will grow and need to be subdivided many times—you will have more concerts than cabbages—if, on the contrary, your income is less than the example, you will find that the food and rent departments will begin to swallow up the other departments.

An example of the extreme of this is exhibited by a budget of housekeeping expenses given by Mr. Arthur Morrison in the Fortnightly Review a few years ago, for a family with an income of £1 10s. a week—about $7.50 a week and $390 a year.

This table, roughly calculated, gives the following proportions:

Nearly half the income was used for food; the same proportion for rent as it is reckoned should be paid by a family with an income of $2,000; and about a third ($2.50 in our money) was left for fuel, clothes, and every other need or want. Yet Mr. Morrison says that if the wife is not lazy and the husband does not drink, a family can live in London on this income and manage to be well and decent. "Pretty hard!"—yes. "Pretty sordid!"—no. Courage and perseverance and self-denial made that budget, such as most of us save up for heroic occasions, and would not think of expending upon marketing and meal getting.

One cannot be as definite about housekeeping plans as one would like to be in dealing with such a definite and practical subject. In the nature of things, each family must decide on the purposes for which its income is used, and on the amount to be devoted to each. I cannot, however, emphasize too strongly the necessity of definiteness on the part of those dealing with their own actual incomes. A carefully thought out plan of expenditure, written down and earnestly adhered to, is a family backbone. A first plan has to be made somewhat in the dark, but every year brings enlightenment and confidence. Though the purposes for which their income is used are for each family to decide upon, yet I venture to lay stress upon three purposes which are often subdivisions of that general and entirely voluntary department of miscellaneous expenses. For convenience, I shall call them, "Allowances," "The Tenth," and "Savings."

There is an odd sort of innate privacy about money matters. Children are taught that it is ill-bred to open other peoples' pocketbooks or checkbooks, or to ask them what their possessions cost. As they grow up they find that business affairs are considered confidential, and that no honourable person investigates another's money affairs without some authority. It is desirable that these rules of honour should be preserved, and one simple way to help in this is to arrange that each member of the family has an allowance, if it is only five cents a week—an allowance for which he is responsible to himself alone. These allowances should go down in the family accounts as "Allowances," the details belong to the individual. The members of families in which this arrangement is made should conscientiously keep their private expenses within the amount agreed upon, for allowances not only teach the right of individual privacy, they teach that old and difficult lesson that "you can't eat your cake and have it too";—that one can't have marbles and candy the same week. An allowance also supplies each person with something to give away, which is really his to give. He may not have earned it by work, but he has earned it by going without something he would have liked to spend it for. There is yet another purpose which allowances serve. They help to prevent the failure of a plan of expenditure. For they keep a strict and careful plan from becoming a galling chain. They prevent the absorption of personal privacy and freedom by the regulations of the family as a group against which the individual, sooner or later, invariably rebels.

"The Tenth" is that part of the family income, more or less than an actual tenth, which is given away. It is not mine to offer advice as to the size or use of this division. I merely emphasize its necessity. It is the small thing, which keeps meanness and bitterness out of the management of scanty means, and selfishness and brutality out of the management of ample means. Establish a give-away division in your plan, for the sake of your own disposition, if you are not urged to it by any other consideration.

Next to this division, which is considered the generous division, comes one which has a less agreeable reputation, but undeservedly—"Savings." Many people who will say giving is a good thing, will deny that saving is. And is it? Why? What is it for? It is to provide those who suffer adversity, or who live to old age, against becoming a "public charge"; or against dependence upon relatives and friends. There is a fine honour in not taking the risk of these things. One ought to be willing to struggle hard and self-denyingly to save oneself and one's family from becoming burdens to other people.

Perhaps you say, "But why pinch and save for something which may never happen?" If you speak as one solitary individual, it is true, you may die before old age; it is the rare family, however, in which some member does not need a provision for a last period of helplessness. Then, there are those things called adversities, and those things called opportunities, which turn to adversities if they cannot be used. Do you know many people, who have not at some time been in a difficulty where they needed money, or who have not had a chance that depended on an outfit or a pledge? Is it reasonable to expect to run to some one else for help at such times?

And, by the way, to whom would you run? To the friend who is the open-handed, good companion, or to the careful, farseeing friend? Of the two, which is the more to be depended upon, the more finely honourable, the more worthy to be imitated?

There are two very usual ways of keeping savings. Life insurance is one of them. It is more than a way of keeping savings, for in most cases, the amount finally received is more than the amount paid in. It has this advantage, and also the advantage that the savings thus laid by are only available at a time of great need—sickness, accident or death—or sometimes, after a long period of years. It has the corresponding disadvantages that these savings are not available for small needs, and also that they may be lost, if for any reason the subsequent premiums cannot be paid.

A savings-bank account is another way of keeping savings. Savings banks will take money in very small sums and will pay a reasonable interest on it. This method of keeping savings has the advantage that the money can be drawn whenever it is needed, but the resulting disadvantage that the account may be small at the moment of sudden need. If it is possible, as it often is, to have both a life insurance and a savings-bank account, a household may feel well protected against calamity, and well provided against sudden wants.

If some member of a family has a life insurance, a definite premium will have to be paid at definite times. A savings-bank account is not so insistent. But to succeed in saving and to do it with as little discomfort as possible, it is better to put ten dollars or ten cents into an account on the first day of the month, and forget about it, than to save five cents in carfare on Monday, one cent on a newspaper on Tuesday, ten cents on lunch on Wednesday, and so on.

You will say that it amounts to the same thing. That if that money is put into the bank, all these little pinching economies will have to be borne as a consequence. That is logical, but only to a certain extent true in practice. In one case, that of the definite amount put away monthly, the money is saved because it is not there to spend; in the other case, it is there, but is saved with the thought of saving. The latter method means going without everything that possibly can be gone without. It is the method by which one fills a Lenten mitebox—it is disciplinary, that is, it is meant to hurt a little, and it does. People do not keep Lent all the year, however; it is an especial season for an especial purpose. At some time of serious difficulty in household affairs, it may become necessary to save in this Lenten way, but the usual, regular sort of saving, which is a duty for life with most of us, should be done as far as possible by a decision once carefully made, and afterward automatically carried out.

I wish I could in some way show the pleasant side of the matter of savings. There is much comfort and gladness in the possession of a small reserve fund. The mere sight of the big, ugly Savings Bank which contains it can give new courage. We look up at the building in passing and know we have there the chance to start again if we are not succeeding; a holiday if we very much need one; weeks to recover in if we are ill; protection from dependence upon other people; the power to keep some one we love from suffering; and the joy of sometimes giving a gift.

And now, a word more on the subject of choices.

In a little town I know, there live two old women. One will not go to prayer meeting because she cannot afford to put five cents into the collection basket; the other goes every week and contributes one bright penny. She devoutly brightens it on a piece of old carpet before she starts. As it is such a little gift, it must be made as fair as possible.

There is a stern business principle in the whole of life. It is that law of choice of which we spoke at first. If we have a thing, we must in some way pay for it, we cannot have the thing and its price too. We pay in various commodities: in work, in money, in time, in ability, in thoughtfulness, in suffering; but in some way we pay. It is not a harsh and ungenerous law; it is to be rejoiced in. God meant us to be self-supporting, not objects of charity.

The trouble with His law is made by us. Some of us try to get out of paying at all; some of us are angry because we would rather pay in something we have not. We would rather pay for food and clothes with money only, instead of with a little money and much thought and labour. We would like to buy our friend a birthday gift, instead of writing that birthday letter which costs us thoughtfulness and an ache in our pride. Because we cannot afford a holiday, we will not pay for comfort and pleasantness at home with the coin of gaiety, or a favourite dessert, or a new book from the Library.

Each of you, and I, whatever our incomes, have our choices of this kind to make, and the price of them to pay.

—It is prayer-meeting night. Shall we stay at home?—Or rub up a penny?