ld wander near her lips. Her eyes are full of light; her very
lips are smiling. Jane, the cook, at a respectful distance, is half
ashamed at the situation of her young lady; the young lady is not at
all ashamed.

"Do you like me?" cries she, holding her floury arms aloft. "Are you
lost in admiration? Ah! you have yet to learn how universal are my
gifts. I can _cook_!"

"Can you?" says Luttrell, with a grimace. "What are you making now? I
am anxious to know."

"Positively," bending a little forward, the better to see him; "you
look it. Why?"

"That I may avoid it by and by." Here, with a last faint glimmer of
prudence, he retires to the other end of the table.

"Have you come here to insult me in my own domain?" cries Molly
wrathfully. "Rash youth, you rush upon your fate; or, to speak more
truthfully, your fate intends to rush on you. Now take the
consequences."

With both her hands extended she advances on him, fell determination in
her eye. Alas for his coat when those ten snowy fingers shall have
marked it for their own!

"Mercy!" cries Luttrell, falling on his knees at her feet. "Anything
but that. I apologize, I retract; I will do penance; I will even eat
it, every bit; I will----"

"Will you go away?"

"No," heroically, rising to his full height, "I will _not_. I
would rather be white from head to heel than leave this adorable
kitchen."

There is a slight pause. Mercy and vengeance are in the balance, and
Molly holds the scales. After a brief struggle mercy triumphs.

"I forgive you," says Molly, withdrawing; "but as punishment you really
must help me, as I am rather late this evening. Here, stone these,"
pushing toward him a plateful of raisins."

"Law, miss, I'll do 'em," says Jane, who feels matters are going too
far. To have a strange gentleman, one of the "high-up" gentry, a "reel
millingtary swell," stoning raisins in her kitchen is more than she can
reconcile herself to in silence; she therefore opens the floodgates of
speech. "He'll soil hisself," she says, in a deep, reproachful whisper,
fixing an imploring eye on Molly.

"I hope so," murmurs that delinquent, cheerfully. "He heartily deserves
it. You may go and occupy yourself elsewhere, Jane; Mr. Luttrell and I
will make this pudding. Now go on, Mr. Luttrell; don't be shirking your
duty. It is either do or die."

"I think it is odds on the dying," says he.

Silence for at least three minutes,--in this case a long, long time.

"I ca