"William," I remarked, gently rubbing the side of my nose with an irresolute forefinger and looking at him from under my lids, "that was a scurvy trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday." He stood amazed, then burst into one of his loud laughs. "You think so?" he cried. "Well, I don't. He only got what he deserved, the hard, sanctimonious sneak!" "Do you say that," I inquired, with some spirit, "because you dislike the man, or because you really believe him to be worthy of hatred?" William's amusement at this argued little for my hopes. "_We_ are very much interested in the Deacon," he suggested, with a leer; which insolence I allowed to pass unnoticed, because it best suited my plan. "You have not answered my question," I remarked, with a forced air of anxiety. "Oh, no," he cried, "so I haven't"; and he tried to look serious too. "Well, well, to be just, I have nothing really against the man but his mean ways. Still, if I were going to risk my life on a hazard as to who is the evil spirit of this lane, I should say Spear and done with it, he has such cursed small eyes." "_I_ don't think his eyes are too small," I returned loftily. Then with a sudden change of manner, I suggested anxiously: "And my opinion is shared by your sisters. They evidently think very well of him." "Oh!" he sneered; "girls are no judges. They don't know a good man when they see him, and they don't know a bad. You mustn't go by what they say." I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask if he did not think Lucetta sufficiently understood herself to be trusted in what she contemplated doing that night. But this was neither in accordance with my plan, nor did it seem quite loyal to Lucetta, who, so far as I knew, had not communicated her intentions to this booby brother. I therefore changed this question into a repetition of my first remark: "Well, I still think the trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday a poor one; and I advise you, as a gentleman, to go and ask his pardon." This was such a preposterous proposition, he could not hold his peace. "_I ask his pardon!_" he snorted. "Well, Saracen, did you ever hear the like of that! _I_ ask Deacon Spear's pardon for obliging him to be treated with as great attention as I had been myself." "If you do not," I went on, unmoved, "I shall go and do it myself. I think that is what my friendship for you warrants. I am determined that while I am a visitor in your house no one shall be able to pick a flaw in your conduct." He stared (as he might well do), tried to read my face, then my intentions, and failing to do both, which was not strange, broke into noisy mirth.