“Mrs. Whitman don’t know it yet,” said he, “but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.  I ’ain’t got any cold.  I’ll get the pellets to satisfy her, but I ’ain’t got any cold.  I wanted to get out again and not tell her, if I could help it.  I didn’t want a fuss.  I’m going to put it off as long as I can.  Mrs. Whitman’s none too strong, and when anything goes against her she’s all used up, and I must save her as long as possible.”

Horace stared at Henry with some alarm.  “What on earth is it?” he said.

“Nothing, only I have gone back to work in the shop.”

Horace looked amazed.  “But I thought—­”

“You thought we had enough so I hadn’t any need to work, and you are right,” said Henry, with a pathetic firmness.  “We have got property enough to keep us, if nothing happens, as long as we live, but I had to go back to that infernal treadmill or die.”

Horace nodded soberly.  “I think I understand,” said he.

“I’m glad you do.”

“But Mrs. Whitman—­”

“Oh, poor Sylvia will take it hard, and she won’t understand.  Women don’t understand a lot of things.  But I can’t help it.  I’ll keep it from her for a day or two.  She’ll have to hear of it before long.  You don’t think Rose will mind the leather smell?” concluded Henry.

“I wouldn’t worry about that.  There is nothing very disagreeable about it,” Horace replied, laughing.

“I will always change my coat and wash my hands real particular before I set down to the table,” said Henry, wistfully.  Then he added, after a second’s hesitation:  “You don’t think she will think any the less of me?  You don’t suppose she won’t be willing to live in the house because I work in the shop?”

“You mean Rose—­Miss Fletcher?”

“Yes; of course she’s been brought up different.  She don’t know anything about people’s working with their hands.  She’s been brought up to think they’re beneath her.  I suppose it’s never entered into the child’s head that she would live to set at the same table with a man who works in a shoe-shop.  You don’t suppose it will set her against me?”

“I think even if she has been brought up differently, as you say, that she has a great deal of sense,” replied Horace.  “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“I’m glad you don’t.  I guess it would about break Sylvia’s heart to lose her now, and I’ve got so I set a good deal by the child myself.  Mr. Allen, I want to ask you something.”

Henry paused, and Horace waited.

“I want to ask you if you’ve noticed anything queer about Sylvia lately,” Henry said, at last.

Horace looked at him.  “Do you mean in her looks or her manners?”

“Both.”

Horace hesitated in his turn.  “Now you speak of it—­” he began.

“Well,” said Henry, “speak out just what you think.”

“I have not been sure that there was anything definite,” Horace said, slowly.  “I have not been sure that it was not all imagination on my part.”