pleased smile. "Melody made those biscuit, all herself, without any
help. She's getting to be such a good housekeeper, Mr. De Arthenay,
you would not believe it."

"You don't tell me that she made these biscuit!" cried the old man.
"Why, Melody, I shall be frightened at you if you go on at this rate.
You are not growing up, are you, little Melody?"

"No! no! no!" cried the child, vehemently. "I am _not_ growing up,
Rosin. I don't want to grow up, ever, at all."

"I should like to know what you can do about it," said Miss Vesta,
smiling grimly. "You'll have to stop pretty short if you are not going
to grow up, Melody. If I have let your dresses down once this spring,
I've let them down three times. You're going to be a tall woman, I
should say, and you've a right good start toward it now."

A shade stole over the child's bright face, and she was
silent,--seeming only half to listen while the others chatted, yet
never forgetting to serve them, and seeming, by a touch on the hand
of either friend, to know what was wanted.

When the meal was over, and the tea-things put away, Melody came out
again into the porch, where the fiddler sat smoking his pipe, and
leaning against one of the supports, felt among the leaves which hid
it. "Here is the mark!" she said. "Am I really taller, Rosin? Really
much taller?"

"What troubles the child?" the old man asked gently. "She does not
want to grow? The bud must open, Melody, my dear! the bud must open!"