known and long loved, he thrust open the left hand window, which extended
to the ground, and entered the room.

There came a little, delighted cry of surprise; a rather uncertain, "Oh,
Mr. Tom!" and in another instant he was enveloped in a tiny cloud of lace
and ribbons and primly starched linen while two bare, brown little legs
waved wildly about his breast, a pair of very sticky lips were set
against his own, and his neck found itself in the clasp of tiny fingers
that had known orange-juice and oat-meal and sugar--and possibly jam--
since they had had intimate association of water.

At length he set her down upon the floor, gently.

"Well, well, little partner," he said, grinning sociably, "that most
surely was a succulent salute.... I perceive from the remainder of your
repast" his eyes had fallen upon the little breakfast table and the over-
turned high-chair which, with infinite dignity unbent, the butler was
rescuing from prostration "that you like a little oatmeal on your sugar."

"I do," confessed the child, friendly. "But Woberts doesn't. Do you,
Woberts?" Without waiting for the corroboration of the somewhat perturbed
Roberts, she turned again to Blake. "I like heaps and heaps of sugar....
Woberts gives it to me when there isn't anyone looking, don't you,
Woberts?" And then, very seriously, she added, "I like Woberts"

Blake laughed, a low, rumbling, ringing laugh.

"I don't blame you," he said. "I used to have sugar once.... I liked
those who gave it to me."