ew the paper-wad?"

Involuntarily Missy's hold on his arm loosened. Then father had seen.
That was bad. Doubtless many others had seen--old people who didn't
understand the circumstances. It was very bad for Arthur's reputation.
Poor Arthur!

"Threw the paper-wad?" she asked back evasively.

"Yes, the red-headed boy. Wasn't it that Summers fellow?"

That Summers fellow!--Arthur's reputation was already gone!

"Wasn't it?" persisted father.

Evasion was no longer possible. Anyway, it might be best to try to
explain just how it was--to set poor Arthur right. So she replied:

"Yes, it was Arthur--but it wasn't his fault, exactly."

"Not HIS fault? Whose in thunder was it?"

Missy hesitated. She didn't like talking scandal of anyone
directly--and, besides, there were likeable traits in Genevieve despite
her obvious failings.

"Well," she said, "it's just that Arthur is under a kind of wrong
influence--if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know that influences count for a good deal," answered father in
the serious way she loved in him. Father DID understand more than most
grown-ups. And Reverend MacGill was like him in that. She found time
fleetingly to wish that Reverend MacGill were in some way related
to her. Too bad that he was a little too young for Aunt Nettie; and,
perhaps, too old for--she caught herself up, blushing in the dark, as
father went on:

"Just what kind of influence is undermining this Arthur fellow?"

She wished he wouldn't keep speaking of Arthur with that damning kind
of phrase. It was because she wanted to convince him that Arthur didn't
really merit it that she went further in speech than she'd intended.

"Well, he runs around with frivolous, light-minded people. People who
lead him on to do things he wouldn't dream of doing if they'd let him
alone. It isn't his fault if he's kind of--kind of dissipated."

She paused, a little awe-stricken herself at this climactic
characterization of poor, misguided Arthur; she couldn't have told
herself just how she had arrived at it. A little confusedly she
rushed on: "He ought to have uplifting, ennobling influences in his
life--Arthur's at heart an awfully nice boy. That's why I wanted mother
to let me go walking with him. Don't you think that--maybe--if she
understood--she might let me?"

How in the world had that last question ever popped out? How had she
worked up to it? A little appalled, a little abashed, but withal atingle
at her own darin