she hummed with an exaggerated gaiety in her voice, for the song had saddened her, she knew not why. At the words the flaming exhilaration of the man’s face vanished and his eyes took on a poignant, distant look.
“That—oh, that!” he said, and with a little jerk of the head and a clenching of the hand he moved towards the street.
“Your hat!” she called after him, and ran inside the house. An instant later she gave it to him. Now his face was clear and his eyes smiled kindly at her.
“‘Whereaway, hereaway’ is a wonderful song,” he said. “We used to sing it when I was a boy—and after, and after. It’s an old song—old as the hills. Well, thanks, Kitty Tynan. What a girl you are—to be so kind to a fellow like—me!”
“Kitty Tynan, what a girl you are!”—these were the very words she had used about herself a little while before. The song—why did it make Mr. Kerry take on such a queer look all at once when he heard it? Kitty watched him striding down the street into the town.
Now a voice—a rich, quizzical, kindly voice-called out to her:
“Come, come, Miss Tynan, I want to be helped on with my coat,” it said.
Inside the house a fat, awkward man was struggling, or pretending to struggle, into his coat.
“Roll into it, Mr. Rolypoly,” she answered cheerily as she entered.
“Of course I’m not the star boarder—nothing for me!” he said in affected protest.