is little lady to wipe her feet on him, did she wish it.

"How is Snatcher?"

"Fine, missy!" he said. "Fine--fine!" His eyes glistened. "Snatcher's
going to pull through, missy. 'Twas a car did hit he," he added, "and I
saw the chap who was in it. I saw him, and I saw him laugh when Snatcher
went rolling over in the dust. I'll watch out for that man, missy."

"Tell me about Snatcher!"

"Leg broke, and a terrible cut from a great flint; but he'll pull
through--thanks to you!"

"To Mr. Vinston, you mean!"

Rundle shook his head. "To you. He wouldn't 'a come for me, nor
Snatcher; he hates my poor tyke. But he's put Snatcher right for all
that, and because you made him do it, and I don't wonder!" Rundle looked
at her. "I don't wonder," he added. "There's be few men who wouldn't do
what you'd tell 'em to."

"Now," said Ellice, "you are talking absurdly. Of course I just shamed
Mr. Vinston into doing it. I'd like to come and see Snatcher, Rundle."

"The queen wouldn't be as welcome," he said simply.

Helen expressed no surprise at the unseasonable return of Joan and
Johnny from their trip. There was no accounting for Joan's moods; the
main and the great thing was, it was due to no quarrel between them.

Johnny stayed to lunch. After it, Joan left him with Helen and went to
her own room. She wanted to be alone, she wanted to think things out, to
decide how to act, if she were to act at all.

"He called me ungenerous--three times," she said, "ungenerous and--and
now I know that I am, I deserve it." She felt as a child feels when it
has done wrong and longs to beg for forgiveness. In spite of her pride,
her coldness and her haughtiness, there was much of the child still in
Joan Meredyth's composition--of the child's honesty and the child's
frankness and innocence and desire to avoid hurting others.

"It was cruel--it was cowardly. But why is he here? What right has he to
come here when I--I told him--when he knows--that I, that Johnny and
I--"

And now, with her mind wavering this way and that way, anxious to excuse
herself and blame him one moment, condemning herself the next, Joan took
pen and paper and wrote hurriedly.

"I am sorry for what I did. It was inexcusable, and it was
ungenerous. I ask you to forgive me, it was so unexpected. Perhaps
I have hurt myself by doing it more than I hurt you. If I did hurt
you, I ask your forgiveness, and I ask you also, most earnestly,
to go, to leave