"Ah, Miss Vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to his
hostess, "there's no such table as this for me to sit down to,
wherever I go, far or near. Look at the biscuit, now,--moulded snow, I
call them. Take one, Melody, my dear. You'll never get anything better
to eat in this world."
The child flushed with pleasure.
"You're praising her too much to herself," said Miss Vesta, with a
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.
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