"Yes!" nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, "about you and--him!" "Well--let them!" she answered gently, "you and Ann are all I care about, so let them talk." "But I--I don't like folks t' talk about my sister, an' it's got t' stop. You got t' tell him so, or else I will. What's he got t' go buying ye flowers for, anyway?" Hermione's black brows knit in a sudden frown. "Arthur, don't be silly!" "Oh, I know you think I'm only a kid--but I ain't--I'm not. If you can't take care of--of yourself, I must and--" "Arthur--stop!" "Well, but what's he always crawlin' around here for?" "He doesn't crawl--he couldn't," she cried in sudden anger; then in gentler tones, "I don't think you'd better say any more, or maybe I shall grow angry. If you have grown to think so--so badly of him, remember I'm your sister." "But you're a girl, an' he's a man an'--" "Stop it!" Hermione stamped her foot, and meeting her flashing glance, Spike wilted and--stopped it. So, while he glowered at the paper again, Hermione put away the dinner things, making more clatter about it than was usual, and turning now and then to glance at him from under her long lashes. "Where did you meet M'Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?" "At the corner of--say, who told you I met him?" "You did." "I never said a word about meetin' him." "No, but you've been telling me what he told you. Only M'Ginnis could be vile enough to dare say such things about me. Oh, Arthur, for shame--how can you listen to that brute beast--for shame!" Now, meeting the virginal purity of those eyes, Spike felt his cheeks burn, and he wriggled in his chair. "Bud only told me Geoff had been--been here," he stammered, "and I guess it was the truth--I--I mean--" "Oh, boy, for shame!" and turning about, she swept from the room, her head carried very high, leaving him crouched in his chair, his nervous fingers twisting and turning a small box in his pocket--the box that held the forgotten hair-comb. He was still sitting miserably thus when he heard a knock on the outer door and a moment later a woman's voice, querulous and high-pitched. "Oh, Miss Hermy, my Martin's very bad t'night, an' I got t' go out, an' I can't leave him alone; would ye mind comin' down an' sittin' with him for a bit?" "Why, of course I will." "Y' see, since he had th' stroke, he's sorrered for our little Maggie--he was hard on her, y' see, an' since she--she died--he's been grievin' for her. Had himself laid in her little room--seemed to comfort him somehow. But to-day, when he heard we had to leave because th' rent was rose, it nigh broke his poor heart. An' I got to go out, an' I can't leave him alone, so--if y' wouldn't mind, Miss Hermy--"