"Good-morning, Michael. Thank you for bringing back my kitty-puss, Saturday night. She will run away, somehow."
"It ain't nothing, ma'am," he deprecated, confused, yet gratified.
"It was very kind. Michael," she considerately lowered her eyes to her breeze-blown scarf, "yesterday Mr. Adriance bought a guitar for me, from the antique shop. We heard where it came from—how you brought it. Will you tell the lady who owned it that I should be sorry to keep a thing she might miss? Tell her, please, that I hope she will soon grow well, and when she is ready I shall be happy to return the guitar to her. We will just play that she lent it to me for a while."
His rough face and massive neck slowly reddened to match his fiery hair.
"You, you——" he stammered, inarticulate. His mittened fist wrung the nearest fence paling. "I ain't——! Thank you, lady."
Mischief curled Elsie's lips like poppy petals, as she contemplated the discomfited giant.
"Is she very pretty, Michael?"
"No, ma'am," was the unexpected avowal. "Not 'less she's dolled up for actin'. She's nice, just. I guess many ain't like the swell one Andy used to work for: dolled up any time."
"Andy? Mr. Adriance? He never worked——"
"For an actress; yes, ma'am," finished Mike, calmly assertive. "He treated her to tea, the day after Christmas, when we was sent over to New York. Ain't you seen her? Swell blonde, with awful big sort of light eyes an' nice clothes on?" He leaned against the frail old fence, shutting his eyes reminiscently. "She had on some kind of perfumery——! Since I seen her, nobody else ain't very good-lookin'."