"Who else could I mean?" She sat up, exasperated, to stare at him.
"Henry Passloe Schofield, you've got to take this matter in your
hands--it's beyond me!"

"Well, what has he----"

"Last night I got to thinking," she began rapidly, "about what Clara
told us--thank Heaven she and Margaret and little Clara have gone to tea
at Cousin Charlotte's!--but they'll be home soon--about what she said
about Miss Spence----"

"You mean about Penrod's being a comfort?"

"Yes, and I kept thinking and thinking and thinking about it till I
couldn't stand it any----"

"By GEORGE!" shouted Mr. Schofield startlingly, stooping to look
under the piano. A statement that he had suddenly remembered his son's
presence would be lacking in accuracy, for the highly sensitized Penrod
was, in fact, no longer present. No more was Duke, his faithful dog.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he returned, striding to the open window and looking out. "Go
on."

"Oh," she moaned, "it must be kept from Clara--and I'll never hold up my
head again if John Farry ever hears of it!"