“Boo-hoo!  Take me home.  I want mammy!”

[Illustration:  “Boo-hoo!  I want mammy!”]

“Dear me,” cried Mr. Fogo wildly, “this is the most appalling situation in which I have ever been placed.”  He thought of running away, but his humanity forbade it.  At length the alarum ran down; but the child continued to scream—­

“I want mammy!  Take me home!”

“Hush! hush!  She shall go to mammy—­ickle tootsey shall go to mammy.  Did-ums want-ums mammy?” shouted Mr. Fogo, with an idiotic effort to soothe.

But it was useless.  The screams merely increased in volume.  Mr. Fogo, leaning against the hedge, mopped his brow and looked helplessly around.

“What on earth is to be done?”

There was a sudden sound of light footsteps, and then, to his immense relief, Tamsin Dearlove stood before him.  She looked as fresh and neat as ever and carried a small basket on her arm.

“Whatever is the matter?  Why, ’tis little Susie Clemow!  What’s the matter, Susie?” She set down her basket and ran to the child, who immediately ceased to yell.

“There now, that’s better.  Did the big strange gentleman try to frighten her?  Poor little maid!”

“I assure you,” said Mr. Fogo, “I tried to do nothing of the kind.”

Tamsin paid no attention.

“There now, we’re as good as gold again, and can run along home.  Give me a kiss first, that’s a dear.”

The little maid, still sobbing fitfully, gave the kiss, picked up her satchel, and toddled off, leaving Tamsin and Mr. Fogo face to face.

“Why did you frighten her?” the girl asked severely.  There was an angry flush on her cheek.

“I did not intentionally.  It was the alarum.  First of all I was chased by a bull, and then—­” Mr. Fogo told his story incoherently.  The angry red left Tamsin’s cheek, and a look of disdain succeeded.

“And you,” she said very slowly, when he had finished, “think you are able to despise womankind.”

It was Mr. Fogo’s turn to grow red.

“And to put up a board,” she continued, “with that silly Notice upon it—­you and that great baby Caleb Trotter—­setting all women at naught, when you never ought to be beyond tether of their apron-strings.  Why, only this morning you’d have caught a sun-stroke if I hadn’t spread your umbrella over you.”

“Did you do that?”

“And who else do you suppose?  A man, perhaps?  Why, there isn’t a man in the world would have had the sense—­’less it was Peter or Paul,” she added, with a sudden softening of voice, “and they’re women in everything but strength.  And now,” she went on, “as I am going that way, I suppose you’ll want me to see you home.  Will you walk in front or behind, for doubtless you’re above walking beside a woman?”

“I think you are treating me very hardly.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe I meant to.  Maybe you didn’t know that that Notice of yours might hurt people’s feelings.  Don’t think I mean mine,” she explained quickly and defiantly, “but Peter’s and Paul’s.”