The squire's face assumed an amusing expression of inquiry and surprise.
"Is that personal?" he asked.
"Oh—of course not," answered Mrs. Goddard in some confusion. She blushed and turning towards the fire took up the poker and pretended to stir the coals. Women always delight in knocking a good fire to pieces, out of pure absence of mind. John Short saw the movement and, escaping suddenly from the maternal conversation of Mrs. Ambrose, threw himself upon his knee on the hearth-rug and tried to take the poker from his hostess's hand.
"Oh, Mrs. Goddard, don't! Let me do it—please!" he exclaimed.
"But I can do it very well myself," said she protesting and not relaxing her hold upon the poker. But John was obstinate in his determination to save her trouble, and rudely tried to get the instrument away.
"Please don't—you hurt me," said Mrs. Goddard petulantly.
"Oh—I beg your pardon—I wanted to help you," said John leaving his hold. "I did not really hurt you—did I?" he asked, almost tenderly.
"Dreadfully," replied Mrs. Goddard, half angry and half amused at his impatience and subsequent contrition. The squire sat complacently in his chair, watching the little scene. John hated him more than ever, and grew very red. Mrs. Goddard saw the boy's embarrassment and presently relented.
"I daresay you will do it better than I," she said, handing him the poker, which John seized with alacrity. "That big coal—there," she added, pointing to a smouldering block in the corner of the grate.
"I did not mean to be rude," said John. "I only wanted to help you." He knelt by her side poking the fire industriously. "I only wanted to get a chance to talk to you," he added, in a low voice, barely audible to Mrs. Goddard as she leaned forward.