“Jessie, are you ill?” cried Mrs Shingle.
“No, mother, no,” said Jessie, making a brave effort to recover herself. “It is all past now.”
“It was them talking in that heartless manner about those two fellows,” cried Mrs Shingle indignantly. “What is it, John?”
“Here’s another gentleman to see you, mum,” said the boy.
As he spoke, Mr Fred Fraser, elaborately dressed, walked into the room, a pull at the bell sounding through the house as he made his salutations, and, in a light and airy way, began to converse as if they had been the greatest intimates all along.
“Mr Thomas Fraser,” said John, in a loud voice. And, in a hasty, excited manner, Mrs Max Shingle’s elder son entered the room, to look angrily at his brother, as he saw him seated there.
“You here?” he cried sharply.
“Ya-as, I’m here, Tom,” was the cool reply.
“Aunt—Jessie!” exclaimed Tom, advancing. “I by chance heard that my step-father had come here; and, taking this as an augury that we were to be friends once more, I followed him; but I did not expect to find my brother here, and that I should be—”
“De trop,” said Fred, with an irritating smile; “but you are.”