‘My hair is grey, though not with years, Nor grew it white in a single night, As men’s have grown from sudden—’ “Oh, say,” she cried, abruptly, “don’t you love Lord Byron’s poems! _The Prisoner of Chillon_, _Childe Harold_, _Mazeppa_—only that’s so cruel! “You see this,” she changed the subject. “This which ought to be a delectation,” pointing with scornful gesture at the remnant of the burned and flattened cake before her on the table; and then, giving her latest creation another whack or two before putting it into the baking-tin, “but it is only an abstraction for which Lord Byron is to blame. I had that book of his poems open, so that I might be committing some of the lines while occupied in stirring the batter, and while I was repeating,—‘There were seven pillars of Gothic mold—seven pillars of’—why, you see, I put seven teaspoonsful of yeast powder into the stuff and never noticed it until I had opened the oven, and the frothy, foamy mass went sizz-z-z—and hit bottom.” Davis became convulsed at her narrative and her manner of relating it. “Now, sir; please do not move nor breathe for forty minutes, and I will show you a triumph,” commanded Bess, as she picked up the utensils which she had used in her work. “If I may speak, ever so carefully,” said Davis, “I’d like to tell you a little experience I had with a cake, or rather, an experience of an old bachelor friend of mine, over east of the range.” “Do go on! I’m sure it is interesting!” “It was this way: Bill had been living all alone on his sheep ranch over there, and like many western men who live lonely lives, was rather out-spoken and uncouth, altho’ true as steel. He grew tired of just bacon and corn-dodgers for grub, so he decided he’d try his luck at making a cake. I happened to be riding the range that day and went out of my way to go over and say ‘How’ to Bill. As I neared the cabin a suspicious odor greeted my nostrils simultaneously with Bill’s appearance at the door. He had nearly as much flour over him as you have now,” added Davis, facetiously. Bess glanced at her tell-tale apron and folded it across her lap as she sat on a low stool interested in the cake tale. “‘Hello, Bill,’ I called, ‘what’s up? Smells to me as if you had a cook! Been getting married and didn’t send me a card?’ I said to him, as if in earnest. ‘Aw hell, no, Dave, this haint no fit place for a woman, even if I could find one who would have such an onnery cuss as I am,’ he answered. ‘Better unsaddle and stop for grub; got some swell dope ’bout ready. Come in pretty easy though ’er she’ll fall.’