It was about six o’clock on a November evening that they were standing breathless with excitement, straining their eyes in the dusk to see one cautious little mouse running round and round and all but into the trap, when they heard footsteps outside, but were far too deeply interested to look round. Presently they heard another sound, and knew by the noise of the crutches on the ground that it was Stephen who was approaching. They heard the footsteps of the first comer going to meet him, and Lilian’s voice saying impatiently: “What a long time you have been! I thought you were never coming! Is there one? Give it me--quick, quick!” “There it is,” said Stephen, sullenly. “What--aren’t you going to give me a word of thanks, when I went out all the way to Beckham for you when I was in such pain? Oh, Lilian, have you no heart?” William and Annie could not see the speakers, though they could hear every word--could hear too the impatient tearing of an envelope. Then Lilian’s voice, in a soft, cooing, but only half-attentive tone, said: “Yes, you are a dear, dear good boy, and my best--friend--in the world.” Then more quickly. “Just let me finish reading this, there’s a dear, kind fellow!” There was a pause, and a heavy sigh from the cripple. Then Lilian spoke again more brightly: “Now, I can thank you as you deserve. I feel as happy as a bird, and all thanks to you,” she added, caressingly. But Stephen was sullen. “It is not thanks to me; it is thanks to the man who wrote that infernal letter! I wish I had died before I brought it to you!” “Why did you bring it then? Why have you brought me a dozen from the same person, all under cover to you?” “Because--because I couldn’t help it--because I must do what you tell me, in spite of myself. Oh, Lilian, can you reproach me with what I do for you?” “I am not reproaching you, you dear old, silly boy! I was thanking you, when you suddenly began to scold me. I trust you more than anybody else in the world; you know I do.” “Then why don’t you trust me entirely, and tell me whom the letters are from? You know I would never betray you. You know that, whoever it was, I would do for you then all that I do now, and more--if that could be.” “Why don’t you tear them open and see? They all pass through your hands.” “I would if they were any one’s letters but yours. But your wishes are sacred to me--they are, indeed, and, if I were to do that, you would never speak to me again.” “Well, to judge from the way you reproach me, that would be a very good thing.” “No, Lilian, no, no! Be cruel to me as you like; but don’t talk of casting me aside like that. What more can I do for you than I have done? What----”