tear stains, and as much of the dirt as could be managed without soap
and water. This done, she refolded the handkerchief with its soiled
side innermost, and tied it neatly round the wounded head, leaving two
long ends which stood up like rabbit's ears. A gust of April wind
wagged them comically, and made mock of the sorrowful, grubby face
underneath. Even Frances, who was only nine herself, must have seen
that the sorrow was not the ordinary childish thing that came and went,
leaving no trace. In a way it was always there. When he was not
laughing and shouting you saw it--a careworn, anxious look, as though
he were always afraid something might pounce out on him. It ought to
have been pathetic, but somehow or other it was not. For one thing, he
was not an angel-child, bearing oppression meekly. He was much more
like a yellow-haired imp waiting sullenly for a chance to pounce back,
and the whole effect of him was at once furtive and obstinate. Indeed,
anyone who knew nothing of the Stonehouse temper and duns and forgotten
birthdays would have dismissed him as an ugly, disagreeable little boy.

But Frances Wilmot, who knew nothing of these things either, crouched
down beside him, her arm about his shoulder.

"Poor Robert!"

He began to hiccough again. He had to clench his teeth and his fists
not to betray the fact that the hiccoughs were really convulsively
swallowed sobs asserting themselves. He wanted to confide in her, but
if she knew the truth about his home and his people she wouldn't play
with him any more. She would know then that he wasn't nice. And
besides, he had some dim notion of protecting her from the things he
knew.