ight. "Look what you're doing."

Obediently he looked but did not comprehend. Her slip of the tongue
had banished every other idea from his mind.

"Say it again, please."

"What?"

"Say _Bob_ again as you did just now."

"I--didn't know I did," faltered the girl. "I--I--forgot."

"Forgot."

He dropped the sifter into the bowl and his hand closed firmly over the
one that now rested on its yellow rim.

"Oh, see what you've done!" cried she. "You have spilled all that
flour into the cake."

"No matter." His eyes were on hers.

"But it does matter. Willie's cake will be spoiled."

She tried vainly to draw away from the grip that imprisoned her.

"Please let me go."

He bent across the table until he could almost feel the blood beating
in her cheeks.

"Say it once more," he pleaded.

Again her hand fluttered in his strong grasp.

"Please!"

"Please what?" persisted Robert Morton.

"Please--please--Bob," she murmured.

He was at the other side of the table now, but she was no longer there.
Instead she stood at the screen door, shaking the flour from her apron.

"Don't move!" she cried severely. "You've walked all through that
flour and are tracking it about every step you take. Look at the
pantry! I shall have to sweep it all up."

"I'll do it," he answered with instant penitence.

"No. You sit right down there in that chair and don't you stir. I
will go and get the dustpan and brush."

"I'm awfully sorry," called Bob, plunged into the depths of despair.
"I didn't realize that when you turned the handle of the darn thing the
stuff went through."

"What did you think a flour-sifter was for?" asked she, dimpling.

"I wasn't thinking of flour-sifters," declared he significantly.

He saw her blush.

"Mayn't I please get up?"

"No. Not until your shoes are brushed off," she replied provokingly.

"Let me take the brush then."

"Don't you see I am using it?"

"You could let me take it a second."

"I have been taught to complete one task before I began another," was
the tantalizing reply, as she went on with her sweeping.

"The deuce!"

"You must not swear in my presence," she commanded, attempting to
conceal a smile.

"Then stop dimpling that dimple."

"Don't you like dimples?" inquired she demurely. "Now Billy Farwell
thinks that my dimples--"

"Hang Billy Farwell!"

"How rude of you! Billy never consigns you to such a fate." She
waited, then added, "All he ever sa