The gentleman gave her an ugly look.

“If you do,” she said at once, “I shall come straight here and open that door you are looking at, and tell your wife.”

He dared not swear.  His hand—­

“If you offer me money,” said Grizel, “I shall tell her now.”

He muttered something to himself.

“Is it true?” she asked, “that mamma is dying?”

This was a genuine shock to him, for he had not been at Double Dykes since winter, and then the Painted Lady was quite well.

“Nonsense!” he said, and his obvious disbelief brought some comfort to the girl.  But she asked, “Why are there red spots on her cheeks, then?”

“Paint,” he answered.

“No,” cried Grizel, rocking her arms, “it is not paint now.  I thought it might be and I tried to rub it off while she was sleeping, but it will not come off.  And when she coughs there is blood on her handkerchief.”

He looked alarmed now, and Grizel’s fears came back.  “If mamma dies,” she said determinedly, “she must be buried in the cemetery.”

“She is not dying, I tell you.”

“And you must come to the funeral.”

“Are you gyte?”

“With crape on your hat.”

His mouth formed an emphatic “No.”

“You must,” said Grizel, firmly, “you shall!  If you don’t—­” She pointed to the parlor-door.

Her remaining two visits were to a similar effect, and one of the gentlemen came out of the ordeal somewhat less shamefully than the first, the other worse, for he blubbered and wanted to kiss her.  It is questionable whether many young ladies have made such a profound impression in a series of morning calls.

The names of these gentlemen are not known, but you shall be told presently where they may be found.  Every person in Thrums used to know the place, and many itched to get at the names, but as yet no one has had the nerve to look for them.

Not at this time did Grizel say a word of these interviews to her friends, though Tommy had to be told of them later, and she never again referred to her mother at the Saturday evenings in the Den.  But the others began to know a queer thing, nothing less than this, that in their absence the lair was sometimes visited by a person or persons unknown, who made use of their stock of firewood.  It was a startling discovery, but when they discussed it in council, Grizel never contributed a word.  The affair remained a mystery until one Saturday evening, when Tommy and Elspeth, reaching the lair first, found in it a delicate white shawl.  They both recognized in it the pretty thing the Painted Lady had pinned across her shoulders on the night they saw her steal out of Double Dykes, to meet the man of long ago.

Even while their eyes were saying this, Grizel climbed in without giving the password, and they knew from her quick glance around that she had come for the shawl.  She snatched it out of Tommy’s hand with a look that prohibited questions.