insult?" She swept the indigestible
repast between them with a hopeless look. "I'm trying my best, but at
times like this I get discouraged."

"Certainly you will," with conviction. "Now this bread, for instance," he
held up a slice to illustrate, "is as good as any one can make."

"And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn't make. It's
bakery bread, of course, silly."

Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.

"These cookies, then." He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure.
"They're good thoroughly."

"Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day," icily. "She was here all the
afternoon."

An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board
Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.

"Margery, little girl," his arms were around her. "Don't take it so
seriously. It's all a joke, honest." With practised skill he kissed away
the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. "Of course you'll learn;
every one has to have practice; and it's something you never did before,
something entirely new."

"That's just the point," repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears
had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. "It's
something I've never had to do, and I'll never learn. I've been trying
for practically a year now and things get worse and worse."

"Not worse," hopefully; "you merely think so. You're just a bit
discouraged and tired to-night--that's all."

"I know it and, besides, I can't help it." She was winking hard again
against two fresh tears. "I spoiled two cakes this afternoon. Elice tried
to show me how to make them; and I burned my finger"--she held up a
swaddled member for inspection--"horribly. I just can't do this
housework, Harry, just simply can't."

"Yes, you can." Once more the two teary recruits vanished by the former
method. "You can do anything."

The girl shook her head with a determination premeditated.

"No; I repeat that I've tried, and it's been a miserable failure.
I--think we'll have to have the maid back again, for good."

"The maid!" Randall laughed, but not so spontaneously as was normal. "We
don't want a maid bothering around, Margery. We want to be alone." He had
a brilliant thought, speedily reduced to action. "How could I treat
injured fingers like this properly if there was a maid about?"

"There wouldn't be any burned fingers then," refuted the girl.
Intentionally avoid