"Why, bless your poor little heart! Tell me about it," exclaimed Ralph, swinging himself into the window, and hurrying to turn comforter.
"The ca-ake is ruined," sobbed Kittie, entirely given over to despair and grief. "It's all slopped and soaked to pieces in the old icing—and I don't want to tell Bea—and I don't know what to do, either. I—I—fan—fanned it a whole hour to make it colder, and it didn't do a bit of good, and—oh, dear me!"
"Well, that is a calamity, to be sure," said Ralph, feeling a masculine helplessness since the trouble lay within the domain of cookery. "But then, never mind; we'll drink lemonade, and let the cake go."
"Yes, I'd just as soon, but Bea—she'll be so disappointed, and I hate to tell her," sobbed Kittie, wailing.
"But Bea is reasonable," urged Ralph. "She will know you did your best, and ought to be ashamed if she says anything cross."
"Oh, it isn't that," cried Kittie, hastily. "She knows I tried, and she won't say a word, but then she'll be so disappointed, because she wants everything nice for Miss Barnett, and—and, I hate to tell her."
"Exactly," said Ralph, much touched at this little evidence of sisterly consideration, and feeling a greater desire than ever to do something to help the cause along. "See here, Kittie," he exclaimed suddenly, and Kittie looked up quickly, for there was something promising in the voice. "Do you dry those eyes out in a hurry, and run out doors to get cool and cheerful, and don't ask me any questions."
"But Ralph—"
"Go, I say, and do just as I tell you. Don't give that cake another thought, but go and fix yourself as pretty as you can for this evening, and I promise you everything shall be all right."
"Oh, you blessed boy," cried Kittie, with a gasp of relief.