"The ca-ake is ruined," sobbed Kittie, entirely given over to despair and grief. "It's all slopped and soaked to pieces in the old icing--and I don't want to tell Bea--and I don't know what to do, either. I--I--fan--fanned it a whole hour to make it colder, and it didn't do a bit of good, and--oh, dear me!" "Well, that is a calamity, to be sure," said Ralph, feeling a masculine helplessness since the trouble lay within the domain of cookery. "But then, never mind; we'll drink lemonade, and let the cake go." "Yes, I'd just as soon, but Bea--she'll be so disappointed, and I hate to tell her," sobbed Kittie, wailing. "But Bea is reasonable," urged Ralph. "She will know you did your best, and ought to be ashamed if she says anything cross." "Oh, it isn't that," cried Kittie, hastily. "She knows I tried, and she won't say a word, but then she'll be so disappointed, because she wants everything nice for Miss Barnett, and--and, I hate to tell her." "Exactly," said Ralph, much touched at this little evidence of sisterly consideration, and feeling a greater desire than ever to do something to help the cause along. "See here, Kittie," he exclaimed suddenly, and Kittie looked up quickly, for there was something promising in the voice. "Do you dry those eyes out in a hurry, and run out doors to get cool and cheerful, and don't ask me any questions." "But Ralph--" "Go, I say, and do just as I tell you. Don't give that cake another thought, but go and fix yourself as pretty as you can for this evening, and I promise you everything shall be all right." "Oh, you blessed boy," cried Kittie, with a gasp of relief. "Boy! Don't insult me; remember I will vote this Fall." "To be sure; I beg your pardon," and Kittie began to laugh through her tears. She hadn't the slightest idea what he could do to make matters all right, but then he had said he would, and that was enough. She never doubted but what he could do whatever he set his mind to. Just after it came time to light the parlors, it became evident to all that something was the matter with Kat. She didn't say anything, but on coming in from a late tow on the pond, and finding everything lighted, she gave a gasp, and stood perfectly still in the parlor door. "Well, what were you down to the pond this late for?" asked Bea, flitting about in her white dress, with the softest color in her cheeks, a knot of blush roses in her hair, and another in her belt. "I--I was cool--I mean I wanted to get cool," answered Kat with a stammer, and her eyes going hurriedly from one room to the other. "What did you light up so early for?" "I don't call seven o'clock early--there goes the gate now." Kat groaned, as if in deepest despair, then dashed up stairs, and cast herself into the first chair with a tragic air.