A young friend of mine who had not long been a wife and housekeeper, on returning from a morning drive, one day, was met at the door by the intelligence that her widower brother, who was a member of her family, had brought three gentlemen home with him to dinner. Her husband had not yet come in, and although not naturally nervous, she repaired forthwith, and in some trepidation, to the kitchen, to see for herself that the early dinner, which was then customary in the household, because more convenient for the master’s business, was in satisfactory progress.

The range was hot and the top empty; the tables clean and also empty; ditto the cook’s hands, while her terrified face had the hue of her whitest dish-towel.

“Don’t you think, ma’am,” was her salutation, “that the marketing has never come home at all, at all, and not a bit of meat, nor so much as a pertater in the house! Whatever will we do? and lashin’s of company in onexpected!”

The mistress was equally dismayed when a glance at the clock showed that it was past twelve. The market-house closed at noon; her residence was out of the region of butchers’ and green-grocers’ shops. It was evident that the plethoric hamper, she had seen filled by her usually careful provision merchant and left at his stand in the market to be delivered at her door early in the forenoon, had miscarried, or been overlooked.

“Whatever shall we do?” The despairing cry rang through her like a knell; a cold trembling seized her limbs, and she dropped helplessly into a chair.

“Has nothing come, Mary? Not even the meat for soup?”

“Sorra a sup, ma’am.”

“Cannot you think of something that can be made quickly? You told me you were a good hand at getting up nice dishes at short notice!”

The Celt’s pose was tragic.

“An’ it was a thrue word I spake, whin I said it. But an angel couldn’t make something out of nothing, or it’s meself that would thry!”

Matters were too serious for the poor lady to suffer her to smile at the implied assumption of angelic relationship.

“Something must be done, nevertheless,” she uttered, desperately, and, with a woman’s instinct of leaning upon rugged masculine strength when deserted by feminine wit, she sought the billiard-room, whither the inconsiderate brother had conducted his visitors, happily unsuspicious as themselves of the poverty-stricken larder, or the qualms that were racking the secretary of the interior.

He showed an exasperatingly good-humored face at the door in answer to her knock.

“Come in!” he said blithely, and would have flung wide the door, but for the agonized gesture that beckoned him into the entry.

In a whisper as agonized, she explained the situation. He reflected a moment.

“Any pie, or cake in the house? fruit, fresh or preserved?”

“Yes, all,” impatiently. “But it isn’t a question of dessert. There is literally nothing for dinner.”

“I understand! I have it! We’ll be fashionable for once. Set on sardines, cheese, pie, cake, claret and sauterne, and a dish or two of fruit. Make a royally strong cup of coffee to wind up with, and call it luncheon!”

In fifteen minutes the guests were summoned to the dining-room, where the pretty hostess, in a becoming demi-toilette, welcomed them as the friends of her husband and brother, and presided over the collation from which not one of them perceived that anything was lacking, like a gracious little queen. A lisp of apology would have spoiled all, and she had tact enough to avoid the danger.

“That man is a Napoleon in small matters!” said I, when she told me the story. “If he never says another good thing, his—‘Call it luncheon,’ should win him lasting fame with all housekeepers who hearken to the tale of his masterly strategy.”

I have given the anecdote at length, that the reader may have the benefit of all the lessons it conveys.

First—Assure yourself, whenever it is practicable, that the materials for dinner are in the house several hours before the time for serving it arrives.

Secondly—It is a wise plan to keep sardines, canned salmon and lobster, cheese, and potted meats on hand always, with preserved fruits, and not to let the stores of cake and crackers run too low.

Thirdly—There is scarcely an imaginable domestic disaster on an ordinary scale, that cannot be rectified, or, at least, modified into passableness by presence of mind and energetic action. “Call it luncheon,” is a capital motto in other and graver perplexities than the non-arrival of a day’s marketing, and where higher interests are concerned than the feasting or fasting of half a dozen people.