"Wot's dat?" he inquired, the first time she produced it.

"A case for handkerchiefs."

"For me?"

"Did you ever have a handkerchief?"

"Nop. An' I'd radder have suttin' else."

"Can you keep a secret, Swot?"

"Bet youse life."

"This is for Dr. Armstrong."

Swot regarded it with new interest. "Youse goin' to s'prise 'im?"

"Yes."

"Den youse must sneak it quick w'en he comes in."

"Haven't you noticed that he doesn't come here any longer, Swot?" quietly
responded the girl, her head bowed over the work.

"Oin't dat luck!"

"Why?" asked Constance, looking up in surprise.

"'Cause youse can work on de present," explained Swot. "Say," he demanded