“Y’ see, Hermy, you’re different; you went to a swell school an’—­”

“And you never did—­I know, dear.  But oh, Arthur, I did the best I could.”

“And a lot better than I deserved,” said he, reaching out to pat her hand caressingly.  “When I get a good job, I’ll stay in nights and study hard like you want me to—­I sure will.”

“Yes, dear, and you’ll soon be heaps cleverer than I am,” said she, stooping to kiss his curly head as she tied the apron about her shapely hips; and then, giving him a smiling nod, she vanished into the kitchen, while Spike laboured through the long columns headed “Help Wanted.”  And presently, as she moved light-footed to and fro in the kitchen, he heard her singing softly to herself, an old, old song of other days that had often been his lullaby when he was a small, motherless armful of sleepiness hushed in her young, protecting clasp.

“Arthur!” she called.

“Hello!” he answered.

“Are you hungry?”

“You bet I am!”

A long pause, whereafter ensued the following conversation between kitchen and parlour: 

Hermione.  “Boy dear!”

Spike.  “Hello!”

Hermione.  “Be a dear and lay the cloth for me!”

Spike.  “Right-o!”

A longer pause, during which Spike rises and takes cloth from sideboard drawer.

Hermione.  “Arthur!”

Spike.  “Yes?”

Hermione.  “Where did you meet him?”

Spike (starting).  “Who?”

Hermione.  “Mr. Geoffrey.  How did you happen to meet each other?”

Another pause, while Spike stands frowning in perplexed thought.

Spike.  “Where did you say the cloth was?”

Hermione.  “In the sideboard drawer.  How long have you known him?”

Spike (beginning to lay the cloth feverishly).  “Oh, a goodish time.  Say, Hermy, he sure likes your name a whole lot!”

Hermione.  “Oh!” (A very small pause.) “Likes my name, does he?”

Spike.  “He sure does.  He told me so.”

Hermione.  “Oh!” (Another small pause.) “Just what did he say, boy dear?”

Spike.  “He said it was Greek an’ very beautiful, an’ then I said it kind of fitted you because you were aces up on the face an’ figure question.”

A rush of petticoats, and enter Hermione, flushed and laughing.

“You dear boy!” she cried, “for that you shall be kissed!” which he was forthwith; after which she turned to the mirror to smooth back a shining tress of hair—­that same rebellious curl that glistened above her fine, black eyebrow.

“Where did you say you first met him—­Mr. Geoffrey?” she enquired suddenly, still busied with the rebellious curl.  Spike started, and glanced uneasily at her shapely back.

“Say, Hermy,” said he, a little huskily, “have you got anything for supper?”

“Not much, dear, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a pity!”