It was too true! Whatever had been the small obstruction in the
tap, it had disappeared. The gallon measure had been filled to
the brim ten minutes before, and ever since, the treacly liquid
had been overflowing the top and spreading in a brown flood,
unnoticed, over the floor. Patty's feet were glued to it, her
buff calico skirts lifted high to escape harm.

"I can't move," she cried. "Oh! You stupid, stupid Cephas, how
could you leave the molasses spigot turned on? See what you've
done! You've wasted quarts and quarts! What will father say, and
how will you ever clean up such a mess? You never can get the
floor to look so that he won't notice it, and he is sure to miss
the molasses. You've ruined my shoes, and I simply can't bear the
sight of you!"

At this Cephas all but blubbered in the agony of his soul. It was
bad enough to be told by Patty that she was "considering
several," but his first romance had ended in such complete
disaster that he saw in a vision his life blasted; changed in one
brief moment from that of a prosperous young painter to that of a
blighted and despised bungler, whose week's wages were likely to
be expended in molasses to make good the Deacon's loss.

"Find those cleaning-cloths I left in the hack room," ordered
Patty with a flashing eye. "Get some blocks, or bits of board, or
stones, for me to walk on, so that I can get out of your nasty
mess. Fill Bill Morrill's jug, quick, and set it out on the steps
for him to pick up. I don't know what you'd do without me to plan
for you! Lock the front door and hang father's sign that he's