"I am speaking in the broad sense," explained Dora, with the loftiness of one who addresses a throng from a pulpit. Then shaking a finger, "'The wicked flee when no man pursueth'—Proverbs, twenty-eighth chapter, and first verse."
"We're not wicked," denied the boy. "Mr. Farvel told us to come."
"We're goin' to rehearse for the weddin'," chimed in the tow-headed one.
Dora let her look travel from face to face, the while she shook her head solemnly. "But," she reminded, "if Mrs. Milo finds you here, only a miracle can save you!"
"Aw, I'm not afraid of her,"—the uncombed chorister advanced bravely.
"She's only a boarder. And after this, I'm goin' to mind just Mr.
Farvel."
Something like horrified pity lengthened the pale face of Dora. "Little boys," she advised, "in these brief years since I left the Orphanage, I've seen ministers come and ministers go. But Mrs. Milo"—she turned away—"like the poor——" Her ministerial gesture was eloquent of hopelessness.
The boys in the passage stared at one another apprehensively. But their leader was flushed with excitement and wrath. "Dora," he cried, hurrying over to check her going, "do you know what I wish would happen?"
She turned accusingly. "Oh, Bobbie! What a sinful thought!"
"But I wasn't wishin' that!"
"Drive it out of your heart!" she counseled, with all the passion of an evangelist. "Drive it out of your heart! Remember: she can't live forever. She ain't immortal. But let her stay her appointed time,"—this last with the bowed head proper to the sentiment, so that two short, tight braids stood ceilingward.