"Can't I help, Mrs. Blossom? I 've no end of unused muscle," said Jack, entering into the fun of the situation.
"No, thank you, I shall be but a few minutes. Rose dear, just feel the oven, will you?"
Jack began to think himself a nonentity in all this domesticity. "'Feel the oven,'" he said to himself. "Do girls do that often, I wonder." He watched Rose's every movement.
"Now, confess, Mr. Sherrill, have you ever seen anyone make biscuit before?" said Rose, cutting off a piece of dough, flouring it, patting it, cuddling it in both hands, folding it over with a little slap to hold a bit of butter, and tucking it into the large, shallow pan.
"No--" Jack drew a long breath, "I never have. You see I have always thought it a kind of drudgery, but this--" Jack sought for a word that should express his feelings in regard to the process as performed by Rose--"this is, why--it's poetry!" he exclaimed with a flashing smile that became his expressive face wonderfully, and caused Rose to fail absolutely in making a shapely poem of the next roll.
She laughed merrily. "There now, they 'll soon be done--in good shape too, if you don't compliment them too much."
"I 'll eat a dozen of them, I warn you now." Jack was waxing dangerous, for he was already possessed with an insane desire to become a piece of dough for the sake of having those pretty hands pat him into shape.
"Do you hear that, Martie?" cried Rose, flushing with pleasure.
"Yes. That's the best compliment you can pay them, Mr. Sherrill. I hope my cakes will fare as well," she said, coming from the pantry with extended hand.
It was strange! But when Jack Sherrill returned the cordial pressure of that same hand, small, shapely, but worn and hardened with toil, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. This, truly, was a home, with what makes the home--a mother in it.