Summer was smiting Our Square with white-hot bolts of sun-fire, from
which one could scarcely find refuge beneath the scraggly shelter of
parched shrubbery, when one morning the Bonnie Lassie approached my
bench with a fell and purposeful smile.

"Dominie, you're a dear old thing," she began in her most insinuating
tones.

"I won't do it," I said determinedly, foreboding something serious.

The Bonnie Lassie raised her eyebrows at me, affecting aggrieved
innocence. "Won't do what?" she inquired.

"Whatever it is that you're trying to wheedle me into."

The eyebrows resumed their normal arch, and a dimple flickered in the
corner of the soft lips. By this I knew that the case was hopeless. "Oh,
but you've already done it," she said.

"Help! Tell me the worst and get it over with."

"It must be lovely to be rich," said the Bonnie Lassie meditatively.
"And so generous!"

"How much is it? What do you want it for? I haven't got that much," I
hastily remarked.

"And to keep it an absolute secret from everybody. Even from Mayme
herself."