e; but this propriety did not
save the structure from Billy's increasing observation. As bottles
came to stand on the table in greater numbers, the closer and the more
solemnly did Billy continue to follow the movements of Mrs. Diggs. They
would without doubt have noticed him and his foreboding gravity but for
Mr. Diggs's experiences in the Civil War.

The repast was finished--so far as eating went. Mrs. Diggs with
changeless dudgeon was removing and washing the dishes. At the
revellers' elbows stood the 1820 port in its fine, fat, old, dingy
bottle, going pretty fast. Mr. Diggs was nearing the end of Antietam.
"That morning of the 18th, while McClellan was holdin' us squattin' and
cussin'," he was saying to Bertie, when some sort of shuffling sound in
the corner caught their attention. We can never know how it happened.
Billy ought to know, but does not, and Mrs. Diggs allowed no subsequent
reference to the casualty. But there she stood with her entire hair at
right angles. The Grecian knot extended above her left ear, and her nose
stuck through one set of Anne d'Autriche. Beside her Billy stood, solemn
as a stone, yet with a sort of relief glazed upon his face.

Mr. Diggs sat straight up at the vision of his spouse. "Flouncing
Florence!" was his exclamation. "Gee-whittaker, Mary, if you ain't the
most unmitigated sight!" And wind then left him.

Mary's reply arrived in tones like a hornet stinging slowly and often.
"Mr. Diggs, I have put up with many things, and am expecting to put
up with many more. But you'd behave better if you consorted with
gentlemen."

The door slammed and she was gone. Not a word to either of the boys, not
even any notice of them. It was thorough, and silence consequently held
them for a moment.

"He didn't mean anything," said Bertie, growing partially responsible.

"Didn't mean anything," repeated Billy, like a lesson.

"I'll take him and he'll apologize," Bertie pursued, walking over to
Billy.

"He'll apologize," went Billy, like a cheerful piece of mechanism.
Responsibility was still quite distant from him.

Mr. Diggs got his wind back. "Better not," he advised in something near
a whisper. "Better not go after her. Her father was a fightin' preacher,
and she's--well, begosh! she's a chip of the old pulpit." And he rolled
his eye towards the door. Another door slammed somewhere above, and they
gazed at each other, did Bertie and Mr. Diggs. Then Mr. Diggs, still
gazing at Bertie, b