It was evening of the same day--and there came a knock at the outer door
of the cottage porch.

The Flopper answered it, and came back to the Patriarch's room; where
the Patriarch sat in his armchair; where the lamp, turned low, throwing
the little room into half shadow, burned upon the table; where Helena,
far away from her immediate surroundings, quite silent and still, her
own chair close beside the other's, nestled with her head on the
Patriarch's shoulder.

Helena looked up as the Flopper returned.

Upon the Flopper's face was a curious expression--not one that in the
days gone by had been habitual--it seemed to mingle a diffidence, a
kindly solicitude and a sort of anxious responsibility.

"It's Thornton askin' fer youse," announced the Flopper.

Helena rose from her chair, and started for the door--but the Flopper
blocked the way. Helena halted and looked at him in astonishment.

The Flopper licked his lips.

"Say, Helena," he said earnestly, "if I was youse I wouldn't go--say,
I'll tell him youse have got de pip an' gone ter bed."

"Not go?" echoed Helena. "What do you mean?"

The Flopper scratched at his chin uneasily.