“But you know better than that,” Barry went on, his voice rising a little.  “You know what you have done for me.  If ever I try to speak of it, you say, as you said about the kid just now, ’My dear boy, I like to do it.’  But I’m going to say what I mean now, once and for all.  You loaned me money, and it was through your lending it that I got credit to borrow more; you gave me a chance to be my own master; you showed you had faith in me; you reminded me of the ambition I had as a kid, before Hetty and all that trouble had crushed it out of me; you came down here to the office and talked and planned, and took it for granted that I was going to pull myself together and stop idling, and kicking, and fooling away my time; and all through these six weeks of rough sailing, you’ve let me go up there to the Hall and tell you everything—­and then you wonder if I could ever be jealous!” His tone, which had risen almost to violence, fell suddenly.  He went back to his desk and began to straighten the papers there, not seeing what he did.  “I never can say anything more to you, Sidney, I’ve said too much now,” he said a little huskily; “but I’m glad to have you know how I feel.”

Sidney stood quite still, her breath coming and going quickly.  She was fundamentally too honest a woman to meet the situation with one of the hundred insincerities that suggested themselves to her.  She knew she was to blame, and she longed to undo the mischief, and put their friendship back where it had been only an hour ago.  But the right words did not suggest themselves, and she could only stand silently watching him.  Barry had opened a book, and, holding it in both hands, was apparently absorbed in its contents.

Neither had spoken or moved, and Sidney was meditating a sudden, wordless departure, when Ellen Burgoyne burst noisily into the room.  Ellen was a square, splendid child, always conversationally inclined, and never at a loss for a subject.

“You look as if you wanted to cry, Mother,” said she.  “Perhaps you didn’t hear the whistle; school’s out.  We’ve been waiting ever so long.  Mother, I know you said you hoped Heaven would not send any more dogs our way for a long while, but Jo and Jeanette and I found one by the school fence.  Mother, you will say it has the most pathetic face you ever saw when you see it.  Its ear was bloody, and it licked Jo’s hand so gently, and it’s such a lit-tul dog!  Jo has it wrapped up in her coat.  Mother, may we have it?  Please, please—­”

Barry wheeled about with his hearty laugh, and Mrs. Burgoyne, laughing too, stopped the eager little mouth with a kiss.

“It sounds as if we must certainly have him, Baby!” said she.

CHAPTER VIII