But when he came to open the door Janice noticed that he seemed to fumble the key greatly, and he kept his face turned from her gaze.
"What's the matter, Marty?" she asked, lightly.
"Matter? Ain't nothin' the matter," grunted the boy.
"Why, Marty! you're crying!" gasped Janice, suddenly.
"Ain't neither!" growled the boy, wiping his rough coat sleeve across his eyes. "Snow's blowed in 'em."
"That's more than snow, Marty," was Janice's confident remark.
"Huh!" snorted Marty. "Girls allus know so much!"
He seemed to have suddenly acquired "a grouch." So Janice went cheerily about the room, singing softly to herself, and lighting the lamps. Nobody else had arrived, for it was still early in the evening.
Marty stole softly to the stove. The fire had been banked, and the room was quite chilly. He rattled the dampers, opened them, and then, with a side glance at his cousin, pulled the paper from within the breast of his jacket and thrust it in upon the black coals before he closed the stove door.
"Where's the New York paper, Marty?" Janice was asking, as she arranged the Montpelier and the Albany papers on their files.