"Nothing whatever."

"Then, for Heaven's sake, release me from my pledge!" Gray spoke
desperately. "When I return, permit me to ask those thousand
questions, and what others occur to me. Won't you?"

The girl pondered this request briefly, then smiled. "Very well.
If you are still curious, when you see me, I'll tell you who I
am."

"A bargain! I'll be back early." More seriously, Gray declared: "I
must tell you right now how perfectly splendid I think you are.
You have completely renewed my belief in human kindness, and I'm
sure your name must be Miss Good."

But a disappointment awaited Calvin Gray when, late that
afternoon, he returned to the store. Miss Good had gone. At first
he refused to believe Ma Briskow's statement, but it was true: she
had disappeared as quietly and as unobtrusively as she had
appeared, and, what was more annoying, she had left no word
whatever for him. This was practical joking, for a certainty, and
Gray told himself that he abhorred practical jokes. It was a jolt
to his pride to have his attentions thus ignored, but what irked
him most was the fact that he was stopped, by reason of his
deceit, from making any direct inquiries that might lead to a
further acquaintance with the girl.

Mrs. Briskow, however, was in no condition either to note his dismay
or to volunteer information upon any except one subject; to wit, corns.