Betty has a real stove, just as real as the one in the kitchen, if it is not quite so big. It has pots and kettles and a frying-pan, and a soup-pot, and the oven bakes beautifully, and it is just lovely! I went to spend the afternoon with her yesterday, and we cooked all the time, except when we were eating. First, we made soup in the soup-pot, with some pieces of cold goose, and we took some to Auntie (she is Betty’s mother), and she said it was de-licious, and took two cups of it. (They were doll’s cups; Betty says I ought to put that in, but I don’t see any need.) Then we made scrambled egg and porridge, and baked some custard in the oven, and it was just exactly like a big custard in the big cups at home. The cake was queer, so I won’t stop to tell about that, though Rover ate most of it, and the rest we crumbled up for the pigeons, so it wasn’t wasted; but the best of all was the griddle-cakes. Oh, they were splendid! The griddle is just the right size for one, so they were as round as pennies, and about the same size; and we had maple syrup on them, and Maggie the cook said she was so jealous (she called it “jellies”) that she should go straight back to Ireland; but I don’t believe she will. I don’t feel very well to-day, and Betty wasn’t at school, either. But I don’t think it had anything to do with the griddle-cakes, and I am going to play with Betty again to-morrow,—if Mamma will let me.