“But I am. I know it myself. What Bob told you was all true. I’m a heartless wretch.” 

 She spoke so earnestly that his heart sank lower and lower. 

 “I wanted to speak to you about to-morrow morning,” she said, after a little pause. “You know we were going to drive at ten together, and—and I wondered if—you see, Mr. Holloway’s an old friend, and he’s had so much to tell me to-night, and he isn’t half through—” 

 She was drawing him with a chain, a hair chain, which she had woven out of her eyelashes in the twinkling of an eye (either eye). 

 He felt himself helpless—and choked. 

 “Of course I don’t mind. You go with him. It’s quite one to me.” 

 She gave a tiny little start. 

 “Oh, I didn’t mean that at all,” she cried. “I meant—I meant—you see it’s all been a little tiring—and to-morrow’s Sunday anyway and I—I Wanted to—to ask you if we couldn’t go out at eleven instead of ten?” 

 She looked so sweetly questioning, and his relief was so great, and his joy— 

 (Probably don’t care a rap for Holloway!) 

 —so intense, that he could hardly refrain from seizing her in his arms. 

 But he only seized her little hand instead and pressed it fervently to his lips. When he raised his eyes she was smiling, and her smile filled him with happiness. 

 “You’re such a boy!” she said softly, and turned and left him there in the window recess alone again,—but this time he didn’t care. 

 

Chapter Seven Developments

 It was during that drive the next morning that Jack buoyed up by memories of Saturday and hopes of coming Saturdays, poured out the history of his life at Mrs. Rosscott’s knees. He told her the whole story of Aunt Mary, and his side of the cat, the cabman, and Kalamazoo. It interested her, for she had arrived too recently to have had the full details in the newspapers beforehand, but when he spoke of Aunt Mary’s last letter she grew large-eyed and shook her head gravely. 

 “You will have to be very good now,” she said seriously. 

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