III The last days of August came, and with them the last week of the holiday. Already there was a scent of autumn in the air, leaves were turning gold and red, and the evenings came cool and sudden, upon the hot summer afternoons. Mary was not very well; she had caught a cold somewhere, and existed in the irritating condition of going out one day and being held indoors the next. This upset her temper, and at night she had nightmares, in which she saw clouds of smoke crawling in at her window, snakes on the floor, and crimson flames darting at her from the ceiling. It was because she was in an abnormal condition of health that the idea of doing something with Hamlet had gained such a hold upon her. She considered the matter from every point of view. She did not want to be cruel to the dog; she supposed that after a week or two he would be quite happy with his new master, and, in any case, he had strolled in so casually upon the Cole family that he was accustomed to a wandering life. She did not intend that anyone should know. It was to be a deep secret all of her own. Jeremy was going to school in September, and before then she must make him friendly to her again. She saw stretching in front of her all the lonely autumn without him and her own memories of the miserable summer to make her wretched. She was an extremely sentimental little girl. As always happens when one is meditating with a placated conscience a wicked deed, the opportunity was suddenly offered to Mary of achieving her purpose. One morning Jeremy, after refusing to listen to one of Mary's long romances, lost his temper. “I can't stop,” he said. “You bother and bother and bother. Aunt Amy says you nearly make her mad.” “I don't care what Aunt Amy says,” Mary on the edge of tears replied. “Hamlet and I are going out. And I'm sick of your silly old stories.” Then he suddenly stopped and gazed at Mary, who was beginning, as usual, to weep. “Look here, Mary, what's been the matter with you lately? You're always crying now or something. And you look at me as though I'd done something dreadful. I haven't done anything.” “I--never--said you--had,” Mary gulped out. He rubbed his nose in a way that he had when he was puzzled. “If it's anything I do, tell me. It's so silly always crying. The holidays will be over soon, and you've done nothing but cry.” “You're--never--with me--now,” Mary sobbed. “Well, I've been busy.” “You haven't. You can't be busy all--by yourself.” “Oh, yes, you can.” He was getting impatient. “Anyway, you might let Hamlet and me alone. You're always bothering one of us.” “No, I'm not.” She choked an enormous sob and burst out with: “It's always Hamlet now. I wish he'd never--come. It was much nicer before.” Then he lost his temper. “Oh, you're a baby! I'm sick of you and your nonsense,” he cried, and stamped off. In Mary's red-rimmed eyes, as she watched him go, determination grew.