"Did anybody see you coming here?" he asked, quickly. "I don't know." "What does she want?" "She did not send me, I came myself." "Well?" "When you come to our house--" "I never come to your house." "That is a lie." "Speak lower!" "When you come to our house you tell me to go out and play. But I don't. I go and cry." No doubt he was listening, but his eyes were on the parlor-door. "I don't know why I cry, but you know, you wicked man! Why is it?" "Why is it?" she demanded again, like a queen-child, but he could only fidget with his gold chain and shuffle uneasily in his parnella shoes. "You are not coming to see my mamma again." The gentleman gave her an ugly look. "If you do," she said at once, "I shall come straight here and open that door you are looking at, and tell your wife." He dared not swear. His hand-- "If you offer me money," said Grizel, "I shall tell her now." He muttered something to himself. "Is it true?" she asked, "that mamma is dying?" This was a genuine shock to him, for he had not been at Double Dykes since winter, and then the Painted Lady was quite well. "Nonsense!" he said, and his obvious disbelief brought some comfort to the girl. But she asked, "Why are there red spots on her cheeks, then?" "Paint," he answered. "No," cried Grizel, rocking her arms, "it is not paint now. I thought it might be and I tried to rub it off while she was sleeping, but it will not come off. And when she coughs there is blood on her handkerchief." He looked alarmed now, and Grizel's fears came back. "If mamma dies," she said determinedly, "she must be buried in the cemetery." "She is not dying, I tell you." "And you must come to the funeral." "Are you gyte?" "With crape on your hat." His mouth formed an emphatic "No." "You must," said Grizel, firmly, "you shall! If you don't--" She pointed to the parlor-door. Her remaining two visits were to a similar effect, and one of the gentlemen came out of the ordeal somewhat less shamefully than the first, the other worse, for he blubbered and wanted to kiss her. It is questionable whether many young ladies have made such a profound impression in a series of morning calls. The names of these gentlemen are not known, but you shall be told presently where they may be found. Every person in Thrums used to know the place, and many itched to get at the names, but as yet no one has had the nerve to look for them.