heart good to look at it."

John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the
shadowy path, and answered with a sudden assumption
of immense industry,--

"I couldn't possibly go, Nan,--I've so much
on my hands. You'll have to do it yourself. 'Mr.
Robert of Lincoln' has something for your private
ear; and the lane is so cool, it will do one's heart
good to see you in it. Give my regards to your
father, and, in the words of 'Little Mabel's'
mother, with slight variation,--

'Tell the dear old body
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.'"

"I will; but please, John, go in to the girls and
be comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here,"
said Nan.

"You insinuate that I should pick at the pudding
or invade the cream, do you? Ungrateful
girl, leave me!" And, with melodramatic sterness,
John extinguished her in his broad-brimmed
hat, and offered the glass like a poisoned goblet.

Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the