“Good gracious, Andrews!” she said. “He was the ‘shock’! How perfectly ridiculous! Robin had never played with a boy before and she fell in love with him. The little thing’s actually pining away for him.” She dropped the grapes and gave herself up to delicate mirth. “He was taken away and disappeared. Perhaps she fainted and fell into the wet flower bed and spoiled her frock, when she first realized that he wasn’t coming.” “It did happen that morning,” admitted Andrews, smiling a little also. “It does seem funny. But children take to each other in a queer way now and then. I’ve seen it upset them dreadful when they were parted.” “You must tell the doctor,” laughed Feather. “Then he’ll see there’s nothing to be anxious about. She’ll get over it in a week.” “It’s five weeks since it happened, ma’am,” remarked Andrews, with just a touch of seriousness. “Five! Why, so it must be! I remember the day I spoke to Mrs. Muir. If she’s that sort of child you had better keep her away from boys. _How_ ridiculous! How Lord Coombe—how people will laugh when I tell them!” She had paused a second because—for that second—she was not quite sure that Coombe _would_ laugh. Frequently she was of the opinion that he did not laugh at things when he should have done so. But she had had a brief furious moment when she had realized that the boy had actually been whisked away. She remembered the clearness of the fine eyes which had looked directly into hers. The woman had been deciding then that she would have nothing to do with her—or even with her child. But the story of Robin worn by a bereft nursery passion for a little boy, whose mamma snatched him away as a brand from the burning, was far too edifying not to be related to those who would find it delicious.