Thrums without doing anything very reprehensible, so far as Grizel
knew. She watched for telltales as for a mouse to show at its hole,
and at the worst, I think, she saw only its little head. That was when
Tommy was talking beautifully to her about her dear doctor. He would
have done wisely to avoid this subject; but he was so notoriously good
at condolences that he had to say it. He had thought it out, you may
remember, a year ago, but hesitated to post it; and since then it had
lain heavily within him, as if it knew it was a good thing and pined
to be up and strutting.

He said it with emotion; evidently Dr. McQueen had been very dear to
him, and any other girl would have been touched; but Grizel stiffened,
and when he had finished, this is what she said, quite snappily:

"He never liked you."

Tommy was taken aback, but replied, with gentle dignity, "Do you
think, Grizel, I would let that make any difference in my estimate of
him?"

"But you never liked him," said she; and now that he thought of it,
this was true also. It was useless to say anything about the artistic
instinct to her; she did not know what it was, and would have had
plain words for it as soon as he told her. Please to picture Tommy
picking up his beautiful speech and ramming it back into his pocket as
if it were a rejected manuscript.

"I am sorry you should think so meanly of me, Grizel," he said with
manly forbearance, and when she thought it all out carefully that
night she decided that she had been hasty. She could not help watching