Sage had darted back from the table, and torn off the large bibbed apron she wore so roughly that she snapped one of the tape strings, before hastily wiping the flour from her arms, and pulling down her pinned-up sleeves. The reason was plain enough, and to be seen through the geraniums, where Luke Ross was making his way across the home close, looking fresh and eager in the crisp January air, as he gazed straight before him at the farm. "There, get on with thy work, child," cried Mrs Portlock, in a half-petulant, half-laughing way; "there's nothing to be ashamed of in making a cake. If you marry Luke Ross you won't have many cakes to make," she added petulantly. "Oh, for shame, aunt! How can you?" cried Sage, looking conscious and uncomfortable, as her cheeks turned scarlet. "Because that's what he has come for, I'll be bound. There, go and let him in." "Oh, no, aunt! I'd--I'd rather not," faltered Sage. "Such stuff, child! Just as if I couldn't see you were longing to go. There, if you don't run and open the door, I'll go myself, and tell him you were ashamed." "I'll go and open the door," said Sage, quietly; and there was a curious, introspective look in her countenance, as, after waiting till the imperative rap of the young man's knuckles was heard, she hastily replaced the apron, turned up her sleeves, and floured her hands, before going to let the visitor in. "I'm not ashamed of making cakes, aunt," she said, quietly. "Bless the girl, what a strange one she is!" muttered Mrs Portlock, apostrophising the great eight-day clock, and then pausing in the beating of eggs, to listen, with the greatest eagerness, as Luke Ross's voice was heard at the door, and Sage's directly after, but in quite a low buzz, for the intervening door was shut. "I don't know what to say to it," said Mrs Portlock, querulously. "He's very nice, and kind, and good-looking, but I'd a deal rather she married a farmer. Schoolmastering don't fill bacon-racks, nor the tub with pickled pork." The buzzing at the front door continued, and the increased current of air made the fire to roar up the wide kitchen chimney. "For goodness' sake, why don't they come in?" exclaimed Mrs Portlock. "That girl will catch her death o' cold." She made this remark also in confidence to the brass-dialled eight-day clock, at the top of which a grotesque-looking human-faced sun was just peering over an engraved arc, above which it revolved in company with various other planets when the mechanism within properly worked; and, after making the remark, Mrs Portlock's wooden spoon began once more to batter the already well-beaten eggs, between pauses to listen what was going on at the door. "I hate such shilly-shallying ways," she muttered. "He's come on purpose to see us, so why does he loiter there at the door? I'll be bound to say if it was young Cyril Mallow he'd have been here by now."