“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by talking poetry and catechism to me,” Reinette said, tartly, and Phil replied: “I mean that you should look on the brighter side and not hate us all because we chance to be your relatives and not rebel so hotly and want to fight and tear somebody’s hair because, instead of being the granddaughter of a duchess, you prove to be the granddaughter of—of a Ferguson.” “Who calls me _Rennet_, and talks such dreadful grammar, and wears purple gloves,” interrupted Reinette, with a half-laugh in her eyes, where the great tears were shining. Phil smiled a little, for the purple gloves, into which Grandma Ferguson persisted in squeezing her coarse red hands, shocked his fastidious taste sorely, but he was bent upon defending her, and he replied: “Yes, I know all that; grandma is peculiar and old-fashioned, but she does not harm you, as Reinette Hetherton, one whit. She never had a chance to learn; circumstances have been against her. She had to work all her early life, and she did it well, and is one of the kindest old ladies in the world, and some day you will appreciate her and think yourself fortunate to have so good a grandmother, and you’ll get used to us all.” “I _never_ shall,” Reinette replied, “never can get used to these people. You know I don’t mean you, for you are not like them, though I do think it very mean in you to stand there lecturing me so, when I wanted you to come to me so badly, and thought you would comfort me and smooth the trouble away, and instead of that you have done nothing but scold me ever since you’ve been here, and nobody ever dared to do that before but father, and you know how awfully my head is aching, and you’ve made it ten times worse. I am disappointed in you, Philip Rossiter; and I meant to like you so much. But you don’t like me, I see it in your face, and you are a Ferguson, too, and I hate you—there!” As she talked Reinette half rose from her chair, and in her excitement upset the bowl of water, which went plashing over the floor. Then, sinking back into her seat, she began to cry piteously as Phil had never heard a girl cry before. Crossing swiftly to her side he knelt down before her, and taking her flushed, tear-stained face between both his hands, kissed her upon her forehead and lips, while he tried to comfort her, assuring her that he was not scolding her, he was only defending his friends, that he was sorry for her, and did like her very much. “Please forgive me, Reinette,” he said, “and let us be friends, for I assure you I like you.” “Then don’t call me Reinette,” she said. “Father always called me Queenie, and so did Margery, and they are the only people I ever loved, or who ever loved me. Call me Queenie, if you love me, Philip.”