“I don’t know—whether—it made me feel anything,” he replied deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual. “I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you really see nothing in the music? But what did you think about?” He laughed—and thought awhile—and laughed again. “Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I thought how pretty your hands are—and what they are like to touch—and I thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock, and left him saying: “You are worse and worse.” She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and put her arm around my neck. “Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked. “Half past eight—quite early,” said I. “But I believe—I think I ought to be home now,” she said. “Don’t go,” said he. “Why?” I asked. “Stay to supper,” urged Emily. “But I believe——” she hesitated. “She has another fish to fry,” I said. “I am not sure——” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!” “Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly. “Why—no!” she said, blushing. “Then stay to supper—will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr. Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs. Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good-night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper. “Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr. Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great. “What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with a deprecating laugh at the end. “I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said. “When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased. “Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.” George thought about it, and he laughed also. Emily, who was laying the table said, “There is hardly any water in the pippin, George.” “Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.” “It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister. “Why couldn’t Annie fetch it—what’s she here for?” he said angrily. Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him. “I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone. “After supper!” laughed Emily. George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.