"Aunt Marjie," said Hilda, her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed, "this is Leslie."
He was pleased to meet Miss Whitcom, but assured her he must deny himself the pleasure of shaking hands. Look at them! He had had his engine all to pieces. He was going to auction off the boat now and give the Rev. Needham's missionary fund the first real boost in a decade.
"Leslie!" hushed Hilda in great dismay. How did they know but the Rev. Needham might be within hearing distance?
But Miss Whitcom laughed delightedly, whether or no, and said that after hearing such a gallant expression of religious zeal she simply must shake his hand, grime and all. And she did so. She had a way of winning young men completely.
"And did you pilot my elder niece over to Beulah before we sleepyheads here at home were even stirring?"
"Yes, Aunt Marjie. It was Leslie. You know!" And Hilda blushed at her very vagueness, which swept back so quaintly to embrace the pancake catastrophe.
"Oh, yes," replied Miss Whitcom with dreadful pointedness. "I know—oh, yes. I know very well indeed! And I know of a certain young lady who departed and forgot to turn off the burners of the stove, so that plain, humdrum mortals must quit the table hungry—positively hungry!"
Leslie somehow managed to establish connections. "Whatever happened, I'm afraid I was partly to blame, Miss Whitcom."
"Aha! Only partly?" For she fancied his chivalry carried along with it a tone, so far as he was concerned, of extenuation.
"Well, I suppose having me there, talking, helped to make her forget."