out of the dining room rug that Jamie stepped butter
into--and all for you--without any thought of any Mr. Tubfull or any
one but you? All day long I've been doing it."

"Of course you did, and it was perfectly sweet; and the flowers and
mother looked so dear--and Janey's hands were clean--I looked to see.
You know usually they are so dirty. I knew you'd been busy; but Betty,
dear, you won't be mischievous to-morrow, will you? He's our guest,
you know, and you never were bashful, not as much as you really ought
to be, and we can't treat strangers just as we do--well--people we
have always known, like Peter Junior. They wouldn't understand it."

But the admonition seemed to be lost, for Betty's thoughts were
wandering from the point. "Hasn't he ever--ever--made love to you?"
Martha was washing her face and neck at the washstand in the corner,
and now she turned a face very rosy, possibly with scrubbing, and
threw water over her naughty little sister. "Well, hasn't he ever put
his arm around you or--or anything?"

"I wouldn't let a man do that."

"Not if you were engaged?"

"Of course not! That wouldn't be a nice way to do."

"Shouldn't you let a man kiss you or--or--put his arm around you--or
anything--even when he's trying to get engaged to you?"

"Of course not, Betty, dear. You're asking very silly questions. I'm
going to bed."

"Well, but they do in books. He did in 'Jane Eyre,' don't you
remember? And she was proud of it--and pretended not to be--and very
much touched, and treasured his every look in her heart. And in the
books they always kiss their lovers. How can Mr. Thurbyfil ever be
your lover, if you never let him even put his arm around you?"

"Betty, Betty, come to bed. He isn't my lover and he doesn't want to
be and we aren't in books, and you are getting too old to be so
silly."

Then Betty slowly disrobed and bathed her sweet limbs and at last
crept in beside her sister. Surely she had not done right. She had let
Peter Junior put his arm around her and kiss her, and that even before
they were engaged; and all yesterday afternoon he had held her hand
whenever she came near, and he had followed her about and had kissed
her a great many times. Her cheeks burned with shame in the darkness,
not that she had allowed this, but that she had not been as bashful as
she ought. But how could she be bashful without pretending?

"Martha," she said at last, "you are so sweet and pretty, if I were
Mr. Thur