any more."

Perhaps she did not take the trouble to analyse the sentiment that
prompted her words. Had she done so, she would doubtless have found it in
a consciousness when in his presence of being surrounded with so fine and
delicate an atmosphere of unspoken devotion that words of flattery sounded
almost gross.

They paused before a gate. Pushing it open and passing within, she said,
"Good-night."

"One word more. I have a favour to ask," he said. "May I take you to the
picnic?"

"Why, I think no escort will be necessary," she replied; "we go in broad
daylight; and there are no bears or Indians at Hemlock Hollow."

"But your basket. You'll need somebody to carry your basket."

"Oh yes, to be sure, my basket," she exclaimed, with an ironical accent.
"It will weigh at least two pounds, and I couldn't possibly carry it
myself, of course. By all means come, and much obliged for your
thoughtfulness."

But as she turned to go in she gave him a glance which had just enough
sweetness in it to neutralize the irony of her words. In the treatment of
her lovers, Madeline always punctured the skin before applying a drop of
sweetness, and perhaps this accounted for the potent effect it had to
inflame the blood, compared with more profuse but superficial
applications of less sharp-tongued maidens.