“I feared it.” He shook his head and warded off the proffered glass. “I am a homœopath.”

[165]

[165]

“You’re a baby, that’s what you are!” said Holly, tauntingly.

“Ha! No one shall accuse me of cowardice.” He clenched his hands. “Administer it, please.”

Holly moved toward him until her skirt brushed his knees. As she dipped the spoon a faint flush crept into her cheeks. Winthrop saw, and understood.

“No, give it to me,” he said. “I will feed myself. Then, no matter what happens—and I fear the worst!—you will not be implicated.”

Holly yielded the glass and moved back, watching him sympathetically while he swallowed two spoonfuls of the medicine.

“Was it awfully bad?” she asked, as he passed the glass to her with a shudder.

Winthrop reflected. Then:

“Frankly, it was,” he replied. “But it’s a good deal like having your teeth filled; it’s almost worth it for the succeeding glow of courage and virtue and relief it brings. Put it out of sight, please, and let us talk of pleasant things.”

[166]

[166]

“What?” asked Holly, as she sat down once more on the bench.

“Well, let me see. Suppose, Miss Holly, you tell me how you came to have such a charming and unusual name.”

“My mother gave it to me,” answered Holly, softly. “She was very fond of holly.”

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Winthrop. “It was an impertinent question.”

“Oh, no. My mother only lived a little while after I was born—about five weeks. She died on New Year’s morning. On Christmas Day father picked a spray of holly from one of the bushes down by the road. It was quite full of red berries and so pretty that he took it in to my mother. Father said she took it in her hands and cried a little over it, and he was sorry he had brought it to her. They had laid me beside her in the bed and presently she 

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