“Henry said another boy told him, but he said you could ask anybody and they’d tell you it was true.  Henry said this boy that told him’s uncle died of it when he was eleven years old, and this boy knew a grown woman that was pretty sick from it right now.  I expect Henry wasn’t telling such a falsehood about it, mamma, but proba’ly this boy did, because I didn’t believe it for a minute!  Henry Rooter says he never told a lie yet, in his whole life, mamma, and he wasn’t going to begin now.”  She paused for a moment, then added:  “I don’t believe a word he says!”

She continued to meditate disapprovingly upon Henry Rooter.  “Old thing!” she murmured gloomily, for she had indeed known moments of apprehension concerning the grape-seeds.  “Nothing but an old thing—­what he is!” she repeated inaudibly.

“Florence,” said Mrs. Atwater, “don’t you want to slip over to grandpa’s and ask Aunt Julia if she has a very large darning needle?  And don’t forget not to look supercilious when you meet people on the way.  Even your grandfather has been noticing it, and he was the one that spoke of it to me.  Don’t forget!”

“Yes’m.”

Florence went out of the house somewhat moodily, but afternoon sunshine enlivened her; and, opening the picket gate, she stepped forth with a fair renewal of her chosen manner toward the public, though just at that moment no public was in sight.  Miss Atwater’s underlip resumed the position for which her mother had predicted that regal Spanish fixity, and her eyebrows and nose were all three perceptibly elevated.  At the same time, her eyelids were half lowered, while the corners of her mouth somewhat deepened, as by a veiled mirth, so that this well-dressed child strolled down the shady sidewalk wearing an expression not merely of high-bred contempt but also of mysterious derision.  It was an expression that should have put any pedestrian in his place, and it seems a pity that the long street before her appeared to be empty of human life.  No one even so much as glanced from a window of any of the comfortable houses, set back at the end of their “front walks” and basking amid pleasant lawns; for, naturally, this was the “best residence street” in the town, since all the Atwaters and other relatives of Florence dwelt there.  Happily, an old gentleman turned a corner before she had gone a hundred yards, and, as he turned in her direction, it became certain that they would meet.  He was a stranger—­that is to say, he was unknown to Florence—­and he was well dressed; while his appearance of age (proba’ly at least forty or sixty or something) indicated that he might have sense enough to be interested in other interesting persons.