“Oh, this isn’t any of your afternoon-tea affairs, I can tell you that!” declared Jeff, watching with pleasure the filling of the tall blue-and-white chocolate pot.  “People know they are going to get something good when they come here.  I warned the fellows not to eat too much supper before they came.  Any more of those chicken sandwiches?”

“For the land’s sake, Mr. Jeff!” cried Mrs. Fields.

“What’s the matter, Jeffy?” asked Charlotte, coming out.  Doctor Churchill was behind her, bearing an empty salad bowl.

“I want more sandwiches,” demanded Jeff.

“Everybody fall to quick and make them,” commanded Charlotte.  “Norman Carter and Just have had seven apiece.  That makes them go fast.”

“Well, I never!” breathed the housekeeper once more.  But Charlotte was slicing the bread with a rapid hand.  The doctor, laughing, undertook to butter the slices, and Jeff would have spread on the chicken if Mrs. Fields had not taken the knife from his hand.

Ten minutes later Jeff was able to announce that everybody seemed to be satisfied.

“That’s a mercy,” said Mrs. Fields, handing him a tray full of pink and white ices, Captain Rayburn’s contribution to the festivities.  “You’d have to give ’em sody-crackers now if they wasn’t.  Carry that careful, and tell Miss Charlotte to send out for the cake.  I’ll light the candles.”

Doctor Churchill came out alone for the cake.  It stood ready upon the table, Charlotte’s greatest success—­a big, old-fashioned orange “layer-cake,” with pale yellow icing, twenty-three pale yellow candles surrounding it in a flaming circle, and one great yellow Marechal Niel rose in the centre.

“Whew-w, that’s a beauty!” cried Doctor Churchill.  “Did you make it, Fieldsy?”

“Indeed I didn’t,” denied Mrs. Fields, with great satisfaction.  “Miss Charlotte made it herself, and I didn’t know but she’d go crazy over it, first for fear it wouldn’t turn out right, and then for joy because it had.”

The doctor handed it about with a face so beaming that Doctor Forester leaned back in his chair and regarded his young colleague quizzically.

“You make this cake, Churchill?” he asked.

The doctor laughed.  “It was joy enough to bring it in,” he said.

“Who did make it?” demanded Forester.  “It was no caterer, I know.”

Charlotte attempted to escape quietly from the room, but Lanse barred the way.  “Here she is,” he said, and turned his sister about and made her face the company.  A friendly round of applause greeted her, mingled with exclamations of surprise.  They all knew Charlotte, or thought they did.  To most of them this was a new and unlooked-for accomplishment.

“It’s not half so good as the sort Celia makes,” murmured Charlotte, and would hear no more of the cake.  But Celia, in her corner, said softly to Doctor Forester: 

“It’s going to be worth while, my knee, for the training Charlotte is getting.  She’ll be a perfect little housekeeper before I’m about again.”