"Yes. Why not? Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I just thought perhaps you'd rather."

Marcia shook her head.

"I want to stir the Newburg and see it doesn't catch," she explained, avoiding the girl's eyes. "We are too hungry to risk having our dinner spoiled. You might just wait and cut the chops for Mr. Heath and fix his potato. Find out, too, if there is anything more he wants. You needn't hurry back. I'll keep things hot."

The task suggested did not, apparently, displease Sylvia.

She dimpled and sauntering to the mirror, she glanced in giving her mass of golden curls a feminine poke. She even slipped a vanity-case from her pocket and powdered her wee, up-tilted nose.

"We may as well look our best," laughed she over her shoulder.

"Certainly."

"Perhaps I might take off my smock and go up in my dark dress."

"I wouldn't. The smock is gay and suits you. Invalids need cheering up."

"So they do," agreed Sylvia demurely, now quite self-possessed.

A flutter of anticipation had put a sparkle into her[75] eyes and faint color into her cheeks. She looked bewilderingly pretty.

[75]

"Here goes Red-Ridinghood," she murmured, taking up the tray. "All is, if I don't come back, you'll know the wolf has eaten me."

In spite of herself, Marcia smiled.

She opened the door and stood watching while the girl ascended the stairs, for the hall was unlighted and the tray heavy.

"I'm safe," called a merry voice from the topmost stair.

Marcia came back into the kitchen. She finished preparing the lobster, straightened the silver on the table, let in Prince Hal who came bounding to her side, picked a few dead blossoms from the geraniums, and sat down to wait.

Ten minutes passed!

Fifteen!

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