“Now, be reasonable, Mrs. B., do,” Star said, coaxingly. “If you had so much to do yesterday that you _couldn’t_ do this work, and it _must_ be done to-day, _I_ shall not feel that I am doing anything wrong to help you, and _I’m going to_.” “Well,” the housekeeper said, with a sigh of resignation, “that cake has got to be baked to-day, and it would take me six mortal hours to clean that fruit alone, let alone the making and baking. I’m sure it’s real good of you to offer to help me, but—there are your fingers, Miss Star——” “I know it, and nimble ones you’ll find them, too,” interrupted the young girl, smiling. “Now, don’t raise any more objections, there’s a good soul, for I _may_ have to do this kind of work for myself sometime,” she went on, with a slight flush, and drooping her white lids to hide the happiness in her eyes, “and I should really like you to teach me how, although I must confess Sunday would not be the day that I should _choose_ on which to learn to cook;” and, without more ado, she bent over her self-imposed task, while Mrs. Blunt turned aside to heave a sigh of relief and wipe a tear from her eyes; “for,” as she told the house-maid afterward, “it was no fool of a job to get nine pounds of fruit ready for cake, and the day had looked longer than the first twelve chapters of Chronicles, with their sons and son’s sons, which her father had made her learn when, as a child, she had played truant from her Sunday-school.” Hour after hour Star patiently worked with the tired woman, helping to stone the raisins, stem the currants, and slice the citron; and when at last the fragrant fruit was all mixed and floured ready for the cake that was to test the digestive organs of the notable lord, she beat the eggs, browned the flour, and waited upon the housekeeper until the savory mess was finished and put in the pans. “Two mortal hours it will take me to bake it, and then it will be ready for the confectioner to ice,” she said, as she slipped it into the oven and shut the door upon it with a sigh of relief. “Blessings on you, child,” she added, gratefully, “for your kind heart and willing fingers, and when you’re married, if I’m living, I’ll make your wedding-cake for you.” “Thank you, Mrs. Blunt; I shall not forget your promise, you may be sure,” laughed the happy girl, as, flushed and tired, but with a light heart after the performance of a kind act, she sought her own room to rest and think of the manly lover who was to come in a day or two, and to wonder if Mrs. Blunt would really make her wedding-cake.