It can go to the laundry." "Well, I never!" continued aunt, flying about for a towel, and wiping her off as well as she could; "but John Flutter is so careless.

He's _always_ blundering.

He means well enough, but he's bashful.

You'd think a clerk in a dry-goods store would get over it some time now, wouldn't you?
Well, young ladies, I'll get some more milk for you; but I won't trust it in _his_ hands." When Aunt Jerusha let the cat out of the bag about my bashfulness, Blue-Eyes flashed, at me from under her long eyelashes a glance so roguish, so perfectly infatuating, that my heart behaved like a thermometer that is plunged first into a tea-kettle and then into snow; it went up into my throat, and then down into my boots.

I still grasped the server and stood there like a revolving lantern--one minute white, another red.