"Know you!" was all the answer she made to that question. "Come into the house. I've got some coffee on the stove for you. I've been up and down the street waiting for you ever since it began to get light."
"Your grandfather won't—"
"He's at Uncle Jonas's; he won't be back till noon. There's no one here."
She led him to the front-door, where he stamped and shook himself; he was snow from head to foot.
"I'm running away from the good Gomorrah," he said, "but I've stopped to look back, and I'm a pretty white pillar."
"I know where you stopped to look back," she answered, brushing him heartily with her red hands. "You came in the alley way. It was Mamie's window."
He did not reply, and the only visible token that he had any consciousness of this clairvoyance of hers was a slight lift of his higher eyebrow. She wasted no time in getting him to the kitchen, where, when she had removed his overcoat, she placed him in a chair, unwound the comforter, and, as carefully as a nurse, lifted the cap from his injured head. When the strip of towel was disclosed she stood quite still for a moment with the cap in her hand; then with a broken little cry she stooped and kissed a lock of his hair, which escaped, discolored, beneath the bandage.
"Stop that!" he commanded, horribly embarrassed.
"Oh, Joe," she cried, "I knew! I knew it was there—but to SEE it! And it's my fault for leaving you—I HAD to go or I wouldn't have—I—"
"Where'd you hear about it?" he asked, shortly.