e
doorsill.

At the wooden table near the pantry window stood Delight Hathaway, her
sleeves rolled to the elbow, and her slender figure enveloped in a
voluminous gingham pinafore that covered her from chin to ankle and was
tied in place at the back by a pert bow. She was sifting flour into a
mammoth yellow bowl, and as she stirred the mixture the sweep of her
round white arm brought a flood of color into her cheeks and wreathed
her brow with tiny, damp ringlets.

Bob held his breath, hungrily devouring her with his eyes, but a quick
breeze brought the door to with a bang and the girl glanced over her
shoulder.

"All hail!" she cried, the dimple darting out of hiding with her smile.
"You have a new cook, monsieur."

"My word!" was all the young man could stammer.

"Is it as bad as all that?" she laughed.

"No--but--Great Hat--this is--is awful, you know."

"What is awful?" returned she, turning to face him.

"Why, having you come here and cook for us two men."

"Oh, I'm always cooking for somebody," was the matter-of-fact retort.
"Why not you?"

"Well, it makes me feel like a--it doesn't seem right, somehow."

"It's as right as possible. I rather like it," said she, darting him a
roguish look, then bending over the bowl before her.

"Well, you must let me help you, anyway. Can't I--I butter something?"

"Butter something!"

"Yes, things are always having to be buttered, aren't they--pans, and
dishes, and cups--" he paused vaguely.

Her laugh echoed like a chime of miniature bells.

"I am sorry to say the pan is already buttered," replied she. "What
other accomplishments have you?"

"Oh, I can do anything I am told," came eagerly from Bob.

"That's something, anyway. Then fetch me some flour, please."

"Flour?"

"It's in the barrel. No, that's the sugar bowl. The barrel under the
shelf."

"The barrel! To be sure. Barrel ahoy! How could I have mistaken its
sylph-like form? How much flour do you want?"

"Just a little."

She passed the sieve to him and went to inspect the oven.

Bob caught up the sifter, filled it to the brim, and came toward her,
turning the handle as he approached.

"I say, this is great, isn't it?" he observed, so intent on the
mechanism of the device that he did not notice the track of whiteness
which he was leaving behind him. "It is like winding up a victrola."

Whistling a random strain from _Faust_ he turned the handle faster.

"Oh, Bob!" burst out Del