“That is better,” said she, smiling at our laughter. “I would not have you go back to Friar’s Oak with long faces, or maybe they would not let you come to me again.”
She vanished into her cupboard, and came out with a bottle and glass, which she placed upon the table.
“You are too young for strong waters,” she said, “but this talking gives one a dryness, and—”
Then it was that Boy Jim did a wonderful thing. He rose from his chair, and he laid his hand upon the bottle.
“Don’t!” said he.
She looked him in the face, and I can still see those black eyes of hers softening before the gaze.
“Am I to have none?”
“Please, don’t.”
With a quick movement she wrested the bottle out of his hand and raised it up so that for a moment it entered my head that she was about to drink it off. Then she flung it through the open lattice, and we heard the crash of it on the path outside.
“There, Jim!” said she; “does that satisfy you? It’s long since any one cared whether I drank or no.”