She looked mystified at first, and then astounded. “How did you get out?” “How do you suppose?” “I never heard anything!” “I took care you shouldn’t.” And he described the successful adventure with pardonable unction in the end. After that he insisted on saying goodbye. And the young girl stood up to him like a little heroine. “I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you go, Mr. Upton.” “Can’t let me?” “I really am sorry—but you must wait to see my uncle.” He stood aghast before the determined girl. She was obviously older than himself, yet she was only a slip of a girl, and if he forced his way past—but he was not the fellow to do it—and that maddened him, because he felt she knew it. “Oh, very well!” he cried, sarcastically. “If you won’t let me out that way, I’ll go this!” And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the garden; but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she held him firmly by the hand. “If you do I’ll blow a police-whistle!” she said. “We have one—it won’t take an instant. You shan’t come out the front way, and you’ll be stopped if you climb the wall!” “But why? Do you take me for a lunatic, or what?” he gasped out bitterly. “Never mind what I take you for!” “You’re treating me as though I were one!” “You’ve got to stay and see my uncle.” “I shan’t! Let me go, I tell you! You shall you shall! I hate your uncle, and you too!” But that was only half true, even then while he was struggling almost as passionately as though the girl had been another boy. He could not strike her; but that was the only line he drew, for she would grapple with him, and release himself he must. Over went walnut whatnots, and out came mutterings that made him hotter than ever for very shame. But he did not hate her even for what she made him say; all his hatred and all his fear were of the dreadful doctor whose will she was obeying; and both were at their highest pitch when the door burst open, and in he sprang to part them with a look. But it was a look that hurt more than word or blow; never had poor Pocket endured or imagined such a steady, silent downpour of indignation and contempt. It turned his hatred almost in a moment to hatred of himself; his fear it only increased. “Leave us, Phillida,” said Baumgartner at last. Phillida was in tears, and Pocket had been hanging his head; but now he sprang towards her. “Forgive me!” he choked, and held the door open for her, and shut it after her with all the gallantry the poor lad had left. CHAPTER XI. ON PAROLE “So,” said Dr. Baumgartner, “you not only try to play me false, but you seize the first opportunity when my back is turned! Not only do you break your promise, but you break it with brutal violence to a young lady who has shown you nothing but kindness!”