And she shook her head at the story of the Montressors, listening in silence to all he said. John heard his voice grow more and more apologetic, though he did not mean it. They were kind people, they had been very good to him; why should he apologise for them? But yet his voice took this tone. When he had done, there was a silence, a silence which was full of disapproval. Susie sat with her head on her hand. She said nothing, she did not even look at him. The pain of his first alarm was over, but her mind was not satisfied. After a while she rose, and, going up to him, put an arm round him. ‘Promise me,’ she said, ‘dear John! Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, my little brother that I have always longed for! Promise me it shall not happen again.’ ‘What shall not happen again?’ He shook himself free of her, with an irritation which was as new to him as all the rest. ‘What do you mean? Promise never to pick up a child under the horses’ feet; never to make acquaintance with anyone that is kind; never to---- What do you mean?’ ‘Oh, dear, dear boy, what shall I say? Don’t you know what I mean? John, it’s _that_ we’re frightened for, mother and I; it brings everything that’s bad with it. It is destruction. Oh, it is nothing to-night, I know; it may be quite innocent to-night: but it’s never innocent, for it’s the bringing of all harm. John, it was _that_ which brought all our trouble upon us: and you should be more careful than anyone, for you’ve got it in your veins.’ ‘What?’ he cried, almost with violence, in the exasperation of his soul. But she made no reply. She gave him a look that was full of meaning, if he could have read it, and, stooping over him, kissed him on the forehead. Then, with a sigh, left that painful subject, whatever it might be, and proceeded to occupy herself with the little details of his rooms and his comfort. ‘You have never unpacked your things,’ she said. ‘Give me your keys, and I will do what I can, though it is too late to do much to-night. If you had stayed in, and unpacked your things, then we should have had such a pleasant evening together. I came over as soon as I could get away, and, oh! how disappointed I was to find you gone. But never mind. You did not think of that--how should you? Perhaps you had forgotten Susie altogether, you were so little when you went away.’ ‘Why was I sent away? It would have been better, far better never to have parted,’ said John; and then he added, ‘I never forgot you, Susie. I think you haven’t changed much. I remember you all this time. You stood at the door and cried when I went away.’ ‘And many, many a time after,’ she said, looking up, with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, many a time; I missed you so. Oh, Johnnie, perhaps you are right. We should have known all the things to guard against, while grandfather and grandmother----’