door closed on the servant than the boy, with a half-apologetic glance
at the young lady, uttered a childish cry, broke from her, and calling,
"Dick! Dick!" ran forward and leaped into Falloner's arms.

The mere shock of the onset and his own amazement left Bob without
breath for words. The boy, with arms convulsively clasping his body, was
imprinting kisses on Bob's waistcoat in default of reaching his face.
At last Falloner managed gently but firmly to free himself, and turned
a half-appealing, half-embarrassed look upon the young lady, whose own
face, however, suddenly flushed pink. To add to the confusion, the boy,
in some reaction of instinct, suddenly ran back to her, frantically
clutched at her skirts, and tried to bury his head in their folds.

"He don't love me," he sobbed. "He don't care for me any more."

The face of the young girl changed. It was a pretty face in its
flushing; in the paleness and thoughtfulness that overcast it it was a
striking face, and Bob's attention was for a moment distracted from
the grotesqueness of the situation. Leaning over the boy she said in a
caressing yet authoritative voice, "Run away for a moment, dear, until
I call you," opening the door for him in a maternal way so inconsistent
with the youthfulness of her figure that it struck him even in his
confusion. There was something also in her dress and carriage that
equally affected him: her garments were somewhat old-fashioned in style,
yet of good material, with an odd incongruity to the climate and season.

Under her rough outer cloak she wore a polka jacket and the thinnest of
summer blouses; and her hat, though dark, was of rough straw, plainly
trimmed. Nevertheless, these peculiarities were carried off with an air
of breeding and self-possession that was unmistakable. It was possible