Well, there was nothing but talk of this kind between Mistress Caleb Fergusson from the Common Farm and my mother. And I thought they were settled for hours, as comfortable as two old hens chunnering among the warm dust by a bankside. So, as I got pretty tired of such talk, I sneaked out, and made a pretence to look at the firm's books--though John Brown, our cashier, knew all about them a thousand times better than I did. From there I stepped over to the packing and despatching department, where I put off the best part of an hour. For though I can stand the steady ditter-clatter of old folks' tongues for a good while in the dark--when I can sit near Elsie and, if she will let me (as a brother) hold her hand--it takes me all I know to put in ten minutes of it in broad daylight, my poor mother with her eye on me (her only hope and pride!), and telling the Pride every other minute for goodness' sake not to fidget in his seat! Well, what I am going to tell is almost unbelievable. But when I came in, there in the little room that had been my father's office--which he had placed at the right hand of the entrance door, and as far away from the kitchen as possible, on account of Grace Rigley and her like--sat Elsie. She was crying, yes, fit to break her heart. She had her hat on, too, and the little bag of things she had fetched over from Nance Edgar's was at her feet. I couldn't think what in the mischief had happened. All was as peaceful as Sunday afternoon when I went out, and now--this! Well, I went up to Elsie and wanted to take her in my arms to comfort her, the way that brothers--except our kind--never dream of doing. But she rose and pushed me off, sobbing harder all the time, and the tears simply rolling down. I never knew before that a girl had such a water supply behind her eyes. Elsie had just fair cisterns full. She didn't cry often, that's a fact; but when she did--well, Brom Water rose, and they put it in the _Border Advertiser_ along with the extraordinary duck's egg and Major Finn's big gooseberry. But though I can make fun now, you take my word for it, it was no fun then. "Elsie, Elsie," I said, "tell me what is the matter?" But she only sobbed the more, and searched deep into her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. But all in vain. I suppose she had packed her own. I offered her mine, but as I had used it some time for a penwiper, for easing up the lids of tar barrels, for putting under my knee when setting rat traps, and getting game out afterwards, perhaps it was as well she did not accept. But I put it to you, if she need have thrown it on the office carpet and stamped on it. But I was of a forgiving nature. I only said, "Dear sister, tell me--do tell me--all about it?" And I tried to remember some poetry; but that was jolly difficult without the book. Besides, you can't remember the changes you have made to suit the brother and sister business, and it won't run smooth a bit.