Mr. Seeders was flushed and embarrassed.  He plunged one hand into his hip pocket and the other into a fresh pumpkin pie.

“Miss Tildy,” said he, “I want to apologise for what I done the other evenin’.  Tell you the truth, I was pretty well tanked up or I wouldn’t of done it.  I wouldn’t do no lady that a-way when I was sober.  So I hope, Miss Tildy, you’ll accept my ’pology, and believe that I wouldn’t of done it if I’d known what I was doin’ and hadn’t of been drunk.”

With this handsome plea Mr. Seeders backed away, and departed, feeling that reparation had been made.

But behind the convenient screen Tildy had thrown herself flat upon a table among the butter chips and the coffee cups, and was sobbing her heart out—­out and back again to the grey plain wherein travel they with blunt noses and hay-coloured hair.  From her knot she had torn the red hair-bow and cast it upon the floor.  Seeders she despised utterly; she had but taken his kiss as that of a pioneer and prophetic prince who might have set the clocks going and the pages to running in fairyland.  But the kiss had been maudlin and unmeant; the court had not stirred at the false alarm; she must forevermore remain the Sleeping Beauty.

Yet not all was lost.  Aileen’s arm was around her; and Tildy’s red hand groped among the butter chips till it found the warm clasp of her friend’s.

“Don’t you fret, Til,” said Aileen, who did not understand entirely.  “That turnip-faced little clothespin of a Seeders ain’t worth it.  He ain’t anything of a gentleman or he wouldn’t ever of apologised.”