"No, I'm not offended, only the mob frightened me, and you were very violent. I don't know what else you could have done." "Knocked him down and walked on, or given him in charge; knocked him down quietly would have been the most satisfactory method. How did it begin?" "He followed and spoke to me. He has been hanging about the house for weeks." "The dev--I beg pardon--has he though?" Sidney Hinchford walked on; he had become suddenly thoughtful. More strongly than ever it recurred to him what a mistake he had made in not knocking down the prowler in a quiet and graceful manner. "Mattie has noticed it, and spoken to him about it, but he would not go away." "Did he ever speak to you before to-night." "Never." "He's a great blackguard!" Sidney blurted forth; "but there's an end of him. He'll not trouble you any more, Harriet; he did not know that you had a big brother to take care of you. These sorts of fellows object to big brothers--they're in the way so much." "Yes, I suppose so." "You oughtn't to go out at this time of night alone," he added after awhile; "it isn't exactly the thing, you know." "No one spoke to me before." "N--no, but it is not what _I_ call proper." "What you call proper, Mr. Hinchford!--I'm sure I--" "I beg pardon; of course anything that I--I think proper, is of no consequence to you. It's only my way of speaking out--rather too plainly. I offend the clerks in the office at times and--and of course it's no business of mine, Harriet, although I did hope once that--that it would be. _There!_" Harriet saw what was coming, or rather what had come. She was alarmed, although this was not her first offer, and the bloom of novelty had been lightly brushed off by that boarding-school folly of which she felt more ashamed every day. She began walking very fast, in much the same way from his passionate words as she had done from the frothy vapidity of that man, extinguished for ever. Sidney walked on with her; her hand was sliding from his arm when he made a clutch at it, and held it rather firmly. He went at his love affairs in a straightforward manner--his earnestness making up for his lack of eloquence. "I know I've done it!" he said; "I know I should have kept this back a year or two--perhaps altogether--but it wouldn't answer, and it has made me miserable, out of sorts, and an enigma to the old dad. I'm only just twenty--of no position yet, but with a great hope to make one--I'm sure that I shall love you all my life, and never be happy without you--can you put up with a fellow like me, and say I may hope to teach you to love me some day?"