“Good-night,” she said, with such a disdainful glance at Tommy.

He had not made up his mind yet, but he saw that it must be done now, and to take a decisive step was always agony to him, though once taken it ceased to trouble.  To dodge it for another moment he said, weakly:  “Let’s—­let’s sit down a whiley on the dyke.”

But Grizel, while coveting the packet, because she had never got a present in her life, would not shilly-shally.

“Are you to give it to Elspeth?” she asked, with the horrid directness that is so trying to an intellect like Tommy’s.

“N-no,” he said.

“To Grizel?” cried Elspeth.

“N-no,” he said again.

It was an undignified moment for a great boy, but the providence that watched over Tommy until it tired of him came to his aid in the nick of time.  It took the form of the Painted Lady, who appeared suddenly out of the gloom of the Double Dykes.  Two of the children jumped, and the third clenched her little fists to defend her mamma if Tommy cast a word at her.  But he did not; his mouth remained foolishly open.  The Painted Lady had been talking cheerfully to herself, but she drew back apprehensively, with a look of appeal on her face, and then—­and then Tommy “saw a way.”  He handed her the gold packet, “It’s to you,” he said, “it’s—­it’s your Muckley!”

For a moment she was afraid to take it, but when she knew that this sweet boy’s gift was genuine, she fondled it and was greatly flattered, and dropped him the quaintest courtesy and then looked defiantly at Grizel.  But Grizel did not take it from her.  Instead, she flung her arms impulsively round Tommy’s neck, she was so glad, glad, glad.

As Tommy and Elspeth walked away to their home, Elspeth could hear him breathing heavily, and occasionally he gave her a furtive glance.

“Grizel needna have done that,” she said, sharply.

“No,” replied Tommy.

“But it was noble of you,” she continued, squeezing his hand, “to give it to the Painted Lady.  Did you mean to give it to her a’ the time?”

“Oh, Elspeth!”

“But did you?”

“Oh, Elspeth!”

“That’s no you greeting, is it?” she asked, softly.

“I’m near the greeting,” he said truthfully, “but I’m no sure what about.”  His sympathy was so easily aroused that he sometimes cried without exactly knowing why.

“It’s because you’re so good,” Elspeth told him; but presently she said, with a complete change of voice, “No, Grizel needna have done that.”

“It was a shameful thing to do,” Tommy agreed, shaking his head.  “But she did it!” he added triumphantly; “you saw her do it, Elspeth!”

“But you didna like it?” Elspeth asked, in terror.

“No, of course I didna like it, but—­”

“But what, Tommy?”

“But I liked her to like it,” he admitted, and by and by he began to laugh hysterically.  “I’m no sure what I’m laughing at,” he said, “but I think it’s at mysel’.”  He may have laughed at himself before, but this Muckley is memorable as the occasion on which he first caught himself doing it.  The joke grew with the years, until sometimes he laughed in his most emotional moments, suddenly seeing himself in his true light.  But it had become a bitter laugh by that time.