Hall and tell you everything--and then you wonder if I could ever be
jealous!" His tone, which had risen almost to violence, fell
suddenly. He went back to his desk and began to straighten the
papers there, not seeing what he did. "I never can say anything more
to you, Sidney, I've said too much now," he said a little huskily;
"but I'm glad to have you know how I feel."

Sidney stood quite still, her breath coming and going quickly. She
was fundamentally too honest a woman to meet the situation with one
of the hundred insincerities that suggested themselves to her. She
knew she was to blame, and she longed to undo the mischief, and put
their friendship back where it had been only an hour ago. But the
right words did not suggest themselves, and she could only stand
silently watching him. Barry had opened a book, and, holding it in
both hands, was apparently absorbed in its contents.

Neither had spoken or moved, and Sidney was meditating a sudden,
wordless departure, when Ellen Burgoyne burst noisily into the room.
Ellen was a square, splendid child, always conversationally
inclined, and never at a loss for a subject.

"You look as if you wanted to cry, Mother," said she. "Perhaps you
didn't hear the whistle; school's out. We've been waiting ever so
long. Mother, I know you said you hoped Heaven would not send any
more dogs our way for a long while, but Jo and Jeanette and I found
one by the school fence. Mother, you will say it has the most
pathetic face you ever saw when you see it. Its ear was bloody, and
it licked Jo's hand so GENTLY, and it's such a lit-tul dog! Jo has
it wrapped up in her coat. Mother, may we have it? Please, PLEASE--"