“So’re mine!” said Elsie; and then, after a quick glance to the south, she giggled. “There’s that ole _thing_, still comin’ along;—no, he’s stopped, an’ lookin’ at us!” She went into the yard. “Well, my dear, I must go in an’ lay down an’ rest myself. We’ll go shopping again just as soon as my nerves get better, my dear!” She skipped into the house, and Daisy, humming to herself, walked to her own gate, went in, and sat in a wicker rocking-chair under the walnut tree. She rocked herself and sang a wordless song, but becoming aware of a presence that lingered upon the sidewalk near the gate, she checked both her song and the motion of the chair and looked that way. Master Coy was staring over the gate at her; and she had never known that he had such large eyes. He was full of formless questions, but he had no vocabulary; in truth, his whole being was one intensified interrogation. “What you want?” Daisy called. “I was there,” he announced solemnly. “I was there, too. I was in that place where the pleeceman was.” “_I_ doe’ care,” Daisy said, and began to sing and to rock the chair again. “_I_ doe’ care where you went,” she said. “I was there,” said Laurence. “_I_ saw that ole bline tiger. That’s nothin’!” Daisy had no idea of what he meant, but she remained undisturbed. “I doe’ care,” she sang. “I doe’ care, I doe’ care, I doe’ care what you saw.” “Well, I did!” said Laurence, and he moved away, walking backward and staring at her. She went on singing, “I doe’ care,” and rocking, and Laurence continued to walk backward and stare at her. He walked backward, still staring, all the way to the next corner. There, as it was necessary for him to turn toward his own home, he adopted a more customary and convenient manner of walking—but his eyes continued to be of unnatural dimensions. MARY SMITH