The day that Mr. Smith bestowed the quarter upon his grandson he spoke of his daughter's "dutifulness" to Miss Lydia. Driving toward his house, he overtook two trudging figures, passed them by a rod or two, then called to the coachman to stop. "I'll walk," he said, briefly, and waited, in the dust of his receding carriage until Miss Lydia and her boy reached him. Johnny was trudging along, pulling his express wagon, which was full of apples picked up on the path below an apple tree that leaned over the girdling wall of the Smith place. As Miss Lydia approached her landlord her heart came up in her throat; it always did when she saw him, because she remembered the Olympian thunders he had loosed on that awful night six years ago. "How do?" said Mr. Smith. His dark eyes under bristling, snow-white eyebrows blazed at her. He didn't notice the little boy. "How do you do?" said Miss Lydia, in a small voice. She looked tousled and breathless and rather spotted, and so little that Mr. Smith must have felt he could blow her away if he wanted to. Apparently he didn't want to. He only said: "You--ah, never hear from--ah, my daughter, I suppose, Miss Sampson?" "No, sir," said Miss Lydia. "She doesn't care to visit me without her husband, and I won't have him under my roof!" His lip lifted for an instant and showed his teeth. "I see her when I go to Philadelphia, and she writes me duty letters occasionally, but she never mentions--" "Doesn't she?" said Miss Lydia. "I don't, either. But I just want to say that if you ever need any--ah, extra--" "I don't, thank you." Then, reluctantly, the flashing black eyes looked down at Johnny. "Doesn't resemble--anybody? Well, young man!" "Say, 'How do you do?' Johnny," Miss Lydia commanded, faintly. "How do?" Johnny said, impatiently. He was looking over his apples and, discovering some bruised ones, frowned and threw them away. "Where did you get your apples?" said Mr. Smith. "On the road," said Johnny; "they ain't yours when they drop on the road." "Say 'aren't,' Johnny," said Miss Lydia. "It isn't nice to say 'ain't.'" "Why aren't they mine?" said the old man. He was towering up above the two little figures, his feet wide apart, his hands behind him, switching his cane back and forth like a tail. "'Cause I've got 'em," Johnny explained, briefly. "Ha! The nine-tenths! You'll be a lawyer, sir!" his grandfather said. "Suppose I say, 'Give me some'?" "I won't," said Johnny. "Oh, you won't, eh? You'll be a politician!" Mr. Smith said. "It isn't right to say, 'I won't,'" Miss Lydia corrected Johnny, panting. Mr. Smith did not notice her nervousness; the boy's attitude, legs wide apart, hands behind him, clutching the tongue of his express wagon, held his eye. "He's like me!" he thought, with a thrill. "Isn't it right to say, 'I won't say I won't'?" Johnny countered. "Jesuit!" Mr. Smith said, chuckling. "The church is the place for him, Miss Sampson."