“What--what kind?” He sought desperately in his mind for knowledge on the subject. “Gingerbread?” “Chocolate layer cake,” she answered. “Oh!” he sighed ecstatically. [Illustration] “Do you like it?” she asked, touched, perchance, by the pathos of his tone. [Illustration] “Worship it!” he assured her. “I suppose you--er--I suppose you haven’t any left?” “I think there is some,” she answered, striving to control the quivering corners of her delicious mouth. “Are you hungry?” “Awfully,” he sighed. “Will you take pity on me?” “I think you want a great deal. Yesterday it was roses, to-day cake. I wonder what it will be to-morrow?” It was hard work keeping back the “You!” that rushed to his lips. But she had acknowledged the possibility of their meeting again on the morrow, nay, had practically suggested it as though it were a matter of course, and he took heart from that. “I’ll say no more about the cake,” he said insinuatingly, “if you’ll give me the roses.” “But I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather give you the cake,” she replied thoughtfully. “You see, the roses mean more to me.” Her eyes ranged slowly, lovingly over the garden. The shadow of her hat cast a warmer tone over one clear, creamy cheek, and Burton’s heart thumped immoderately. [Illustration] “They would mean more, much more, to me, too,” he said softly, and his voice was not quite even. Perhaps she caught his meaning; at least the shadowed cheek found new color, and she made a little movement as though to go on her way up the path towards the house. But--and perhaps, after all, she was not altogether displeased--she only bent her warm face over a tempting spray of golden blossoms, and Burton, who had noted the impulse toward flight, went on hurriedly: [Illustration] “One hears so much, and rightly, of Southern hospitality,” he said, “that certainly I am not mistaken in thinking you will give me, out of your vast wealth, one little rose a day?” “You wouldn’t rather have the cake?” she asked, raising her head and viewing him quite calmly. “No, the rose, if you please.” “But it was delicious cake,” she went on musingly. “It was really the best I ever made, and Aunt Amanda says I make very good cake.” “I could never doubt that,” he answered gallantly. “It was very high, and it had four layers of lovely chocolate cream filling and lots and lots of chocolate icing on top. Don’t you like chocolate icing?” “Awfully, but I like roses--some roses--far more.” “Oh! But--every day? Don’t you think that’s rather often? Fresh roses will easily last three days without wilting, and if I gave you one this morning it ought to do until--let me see”--she counted the tips of three gloved fingers--“why, until Thursday!” [Illustration] But he shook his head with decision. “It must be one a day.” “Must?” she repeated with a tinge of emphasis and a slight lifting of her brows. [Illustration]