A launch was lowered, and the owner's gangway dropped. And in another moment, Blake stood, balancing himself nicely against the rolling of the little craft, as it rushed through the blue-gray water toward the landing pier at the foot of the velvet lawn. Like one who, in haste, yet longs to loiter Blake made his way across the sward to where, jutting out from a corner of the house, a tiny bay window thrust itself forth among a confusion of tangled nasturtiums, copper- colored, yellow, crimson son. With the privileged assurance of one long known and long loved, he thrust open the left hand window, which extended to the ground, and entered the room. There came a little, delighted cry of surprise; a rather uncertain, "Oh, Mr. Tom!" and in another instant he was enveloped in a tiny cloud of lace and ribbons and primly starched linen while two bare, brown little legs waved wildly about his breast, a pair of very sticky lips were set against his own, and his neck found itself in the clasp of tiny fingers that had known orange-juice and oat-meal and sugar--and possibly jam-- since they had had intimate association of water. At length he set her down upon the floor, gently. "Well, well, little partner," he said, grinning sociably, "that most surely was a succulent salute.... I perceive from the remainder of your repast" his eyes had fallen upon the little breakfast table and the over- turned high-chair which, with infinite dignity unbent, the butler was rescuing from prostration "that you like a little oatmeal on your sugar." "I do," confessed the child, friendly. "But Woberts doesn't. Do you, Woberts?" Without waiting for the corroboration of the somewhat perturbed Roberts, she turned again to Blake. "I like heaps and heaps of sugar.... Woberts gives it to me when there isn't anyone looking, don't you, Woberts?" And then, very seriously, she added, "I like Woberts" Blake laughed, a low, rumbling, ringing laugh. "I don't blame you," he said. "I used to have sugar once.... I liked those who gave it to me." He picked her up and set her again in the high-chair, moving it close to the table with its dainty china and center-piece of pink carnations. The child looked up at him, half wondering. She was pretty--very pretty-- with serious, round violet eyes, sun-kissed cheeks, and hair of the soft brown that is of kin to gold. "Don't you get any sugar now?" she asked, very seriously. He shook his head. "Not any?" she persisted. "Never?" "Not any," he replied, gravely. "Never." Swiftly she picked up the little silver sugar jar; she cast an investigative eye up at the solemn visage of the butler. "Mr. Tom can have some of ours, can't he, Woberts?" she inquired, gravely tendering the bowl to Blake, who accepted it just as gravely. "I thank you," he said, very seriously. "It is kind of you.... But, do you know, I was speaking rather of figurative sugar." The child shook her head, perplexedly.