Judith was somewhat impressed by his face and manner, but still inclined to mock at a confession of fear.  “Under the bed!” she sneered.

Arnold evidently felt the horror of the recently enacted scene so vividly that there was no room for shame in his mind.  “You bet I did!  And so would you too, if you’d ha’ been there. Gee!”

In spite of herself Judith looked somewhat startled by the vibration of sincerity in his voice, and Sylvia, with her quick sympathy of divination, had turned almost as pale as the little boy, who, all his braggart turbulence gone, stood looking at them with a sick expression in his eyes.

“Was it in your room?” asked Judith.  “I thought Pauline’s room was on the top floor.  What was she doing down there?”

“No, it was in old Rollins’ room—­next to mine.  I don’t know what Pauline was doing there.”

“What did Pauline do when Aunt Victoria scolded her?” asked Sylvia.  She had come to be fond of the pretty young maid with her fat, quick hands and her bright, warm-hearted smile for her mistress’ little niece.  One day, when Mrs. Marshall-Smith had, for a moment, chanced to leave them alone, Pauline had given her a sudden embrace, and had told her:  “At ’ome zere are four leetle brozers and sisters.  America is a place mos’ solitary!” “What did Pauline do?” asked Sylvia again as Arnold did not answer.

The boy looked down.  “Pauline just cried and cried,” he said in a low tone.  “I liked Pauline!  She was awful good to me.  I—­I heard her crying afterwards as she went away.  Seemed to me I could hear her crying all the way out here.”

“Did she go away?” asked Judith, trying to make something coherent out of the story.  Arnold nodded.

“You bet she did.  Madrina turned her right out—­and old Rollins too.”

“Was he there?  What was the matter anyhow?” Judith persisted.

Arnold twisted uncomfortably, loath to continue bringing up the scene.  “I d’n know what was the matter.  Yes, old Rollins was there, all right.  He’s gone away too, the doggoned old thing—­for good.  That’s something!” He added, “Aw, quit talkin’ about it, can’t you!  Let’s play!”

“It’s my turn to help Mother with the tomatoes,” said Judith.  “She’s doing the last of the canning this morning.  Maybe she’d let you help.”

Arnold brightened.  “Maybe she would!” he said, adding eagerly, “Maybe she’d tell us another of the stories about her grandmother.”

Judith snatched at his hand and began racing down the path to the garden.  “Maybe she would!” she cried.  They both called as they ran, “Mother, oh, Mother!” and as they ran, they leaped and bounded into the bright autumn air like a couple of puppies.

Sylvia’s mental resiliency was not of such sturdily elastic stuff.  She stood still, thinking of Pauline crying, and crying—­and started aside when her aunt came out again on the porch.