“Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”

This worm, established upon the fence opposite the conservatory windows, and in direct view from the table in the dining-room, shrieked the accursed request at short intervals throughout the luncheon hour.  The humour of childhood is sometimes almost intrusive.

And now began a life for Hedrick which may be rather painfully but truthfully likened to a prolongation of the experiences of a rat that finds itself in the middle of a crowded street in daylight:  there is plenty of excitement but no pleasure.  He was pursued, harried, hounded from early morning till nightfall, and even in his bed would hear shrill shouts go down the sidewalk from the throats of juvenile fly-by-nights:  “Oh dar-ling lit-oh darling lit-oh lit-le boy, lit-le boy, kiss me some more!” And one day he overheard a remark which strengthened his growing conviction that the cataclysm had affected the whole United States:  it was a teacher who spoke, explaining to another a disturbance in the hall of the school.  She said, behind her hand: 

“He kissed an idiot.”

Laura had not even remotely foreseen the consequences of her revelation, nor, indeed, did she now properly estimate their effect upon Hedrick.  She and her mother were both sorry for him, and did what they could to alleviate his misfortunes, but there was an inevitable remnant of amusement in their sympathy.  Youth, at war, affects stoicism but not resignation:  in truth, resignation was not much in Hedrick’s line, and it would be far from the fact to say that he was softened by his sufferings.  He brooded profoundly and his brightest thought was revenge.  It was not upon Cora that his chief bitterness turned.  Cora had always been the constant, open enemy:  warfare between them was a regular condition of life; and unconsciously, and without “thinking it out,” he recognized the naturalness of her seizing upon the deadliest weapon against him that came to her hand.  There was nothing unexpected in that:  no, the treachery, to his mind, lay in the act of Laura, that non-combatant, who had furnished the natural and habitual enemy with this scourge.  At all times, and with or without cause, he ever stood ready to do anything possible for the reduction of Cora’s cockiness, but now it was for the taking-down of Laura and the repayment of her uncalled-for and overwhelming assistance to the opposite camp that he lay awake nights and kept his imagination hot.  Laura was a serene person, so neutral—­outwardly, at least—­and so little concerned for herself in any matter he could bring to mind, that for purposes of revenge she was a difficult proposition.  And then, in a desperate hour, he remembered her book.

Only once had he glimpsed it, but she had shown unmistakable agitation of a mysterious sort as she wrote in it, and, upon observing his presence, a prompt determination to prevent his reading a word of what she had written.  Therefore, it was something peculiarly sacred and intimate.  This deduction was proved by the care she exercised in keeping the book concealed from all eyes.  A slow satisfaction began to permeate him:  he made up his mind to find that padlocked ledger.