"Good old stuff!" was Stanton's immediate silent comment on everything in sight.
It was perfectly evident that the little old lady knew nothing whatsoever about Stanton, but it was equally evident that she suspected him of being neither a highwayman nor a book agent, and was really sincerely sorry that Molly had "a headache" and would be unable to see him.
"But I've come so far," persisted Stanton. "All the way from Boston. Is she very ill? Has she been ill long?"
The little old lady's mind ignored the questions but clung a trifle nervously to the word Boston.
"Boston?" her sweet voice quavered. "Boston? Why you look so nice—surely you're not that mysterious man who has been annoying Mollie so dreadfully these past few days. I told her no good would ever come of her going to the city."
"Annoying Molly?" cried Stanton. "Annoying my Molly? I? Why, it's to prevent anybody in the whole wide world from ever annoying her again about—anything, that I've come here now!" he persisted rashly. "And don't you see—we had a little misunderstanding and—"
Into the little old lady's ivory cheek crept a small, bright, blush-spot.
"Oh, you had a little misunderstanding," she repeated softly. "A little quarrel? Oh, is that why Molly has been crying so much ever since she came home?"
Very gently she reached out her tiny, blue-veined hand, and turned Stanton's big body around so that the lamp-light smote him squarely on his face.
"Are you a good boy?" she asked. "Are you good enough for—my—little Molly?"