Henry told him the story in a few words.

“Gee whiz!” said Meeks.  “I thought I had finished the Sunday papers and here you are with another sensation.  Let’s see the stuff.”

Henry gave the crumpled box with the mass of candy to Meeks, who examined it closely.  He smelled of it.  He even tasted a bit.  “It’s all beyond me,” he said, finally.  “I am loath to admit that a sensation has lit upon us here in East Westland.  Leave it with me, and I’ll see what is the matter with it, if there’s anything.  I don’t think myself there’s anything, but I’ll take it to Wallace.  He’s an analytical chemist, and holds his tongue, which is worth more than the chemistry.”

“You will not say a word—­” began Henry, but Meeks interrupted him.

“Don’t you know me well enough by this time?” he demanded, and Henry admitted that he did.

“Do you suppose I want all this blessed little town in a tumult, and the devil to pay?” said Meeks.  “It is near time for me to start some daisy wine, too.  I shouldn’t have a minute free.  There’d be suits for damages, and murder trials, and the Lord knows what.  I’d rather make my daisy wine.  Leave this damned sticky mess with me, and I’ll see to it.  What in creation any young woman in her senses wants to spend her time in making such stuff for, anyway, beats me.  Women are all more or less fools, anyhow.  I suppose they can’t help it, but we ought to have it in mind.”

“I suppose there’s something in it,” said Henry, rather doubtfully.

Meeks laughed.  “Oh, I don’t expect any man with a wife to agree with me,” he said.  “You might as well try to lift yourself by your boot-straps; but I’ve got standing-ground outside the situation and you haven’t.  Good-night, Henry.  Don’t fret yourself over this.  I’ll let you know as soon as I know myself.”

Henry, passing the Ayres house on his way home, fancied he heard again a sob, but this time it was so stifled that he was not sure.  “It’s mighty queer work, anyway,” he thought.  He thought also that though he should have liked a son, he was very glad that he and Sylvia had not owned a daughter.  He was fond of Rose, but, although she was a normal girl, she often gave him a sense of mystery which irritated him.

Had Henry Whitman dreamed of what was really going on in the Ayres house, he would have been devoutly thankful that he had no daughter.  He had in reality heard the sob which he had not been sure of.  It had come from Lucy’s room.  Her mother was there with her.  The two had been closeted together ever since Rose had gone.  Lucy had rushed up-stairs and pulled off her pretty gown with a hysterical fury.  She had torn it at the neck, because the hooks would not unfasten easily, before her mother, who moved more slowly, had entered the room.

“What are you doing, Lucy?” Mrs. Ayres asked, in a voice which was at once tender and stern.

“Getting out of this old dress,” replied Lucy, fiercely.