was entertaining in the large drawing-room. Helena brought Miles into the little alcove and plied him with soft speeches, tea and cakes. Pembroke and Olivia sitting by exchanged smiles at the two enjoying themselves boy and girl fashion. Helena was but nineteen, and Miles had not yet passed his twenty-third birthday. The horror of his wound was added to by the youth of his features.
"Now take this little cake," said Helena, earnestly. "I made these myself. Do you know that I can make cakes?"
"What an accomplished girl! I shall be be afraid of you. I learned to make ash cakes during the war," answered Miles as gravely.
"What is an ash cake, pray?"
"Why, it's—it's—corn bread baked in the ashes."
"Oh, how funny! And how do you get the ashes off?"
"Wash them off."
In the course of the discussion Miles had quite forgotten a piteous and ineffective little stratagem of his to turn the uninjured side of his face toward whom he was addressing. He leaned forward, gazing into Helena's pretty but somewhat meaningless face, just as any other youngster might have done, and Helena, with youthful seriousness, had plunged into the sentimental discussion wherein the American girl is prone to fall. Pembroke would have gone after ten minutes, but Miles was so evidently enjoying himself, that the elder brother stayed on. It was like the afternoon at Olivia's house—so
