He picked her up and set her again in the high-chair, moving it close to
the table with its dainty china and center-piece of pink carnations.

The child looked up at him, half wondering. She was pretty--very pretty--
with serious, round violet eyes, sun-kissed cheeks, and hair of the soft
brown that is of kin to gold.

"Don't you get any sugar now?" she asked, very seriously.

He shook his head.

"Not any?" she persisted. "Never?"

"Not any," he replied, gravely. "Never."

Swiftly she picked up the little silver sugar jar; she cast an
investigative eye up at the solemn visage of the butler.

"Mr. Tom can have some of ours, can't he, Woberts?" she inquired, gravely
tendering the bowl to Blake, who accepted it just as gravely.

"I thank you," he said, very seriously. "It is kind of you.... But, do
you know, I was speaking rather of figurative sugar."

The child shook her head, perplexedly.

"I don't think we have that kind," she ventured. "We have powdered sugar,
and loaf sugar, and gran--granulated," she syllablized it, calling it
"gran-u-lat-ed"--"and we have pulverized sugar, too. But I don't believe
we have fig--the kind you said.... I'm sorry."