"I've been done—cooked to a crisp!" he wailed.
She kissed and consoled him tenderly, but he refused to be comforted. She had applied raw steak to his injured eye. What balm could she pour upon a bruised and bleeding heart?
"That man knows. He felt sorry for me. He hated to tell me. He promised that he would tell nobody else—a good sort! What did your mother say—Sir Humpty and Lady Dumpty. There you are!"
She kissed him again and stroked his face.
"I was so sure of my own judgment, Susie. The loss of the money is bad enough, but everybody will find out that I've been had. That's what tears me!"
"He may be mistaken."
"Not he. He knows. I've a mind to go outside and hire a strong man to kick me."
Next morning there was a wholesome reaction. Susan and he stood in front of the commode. The sun streamed upon it.
"By Gum! I do believe it's all right. If it isn't, I'd better go back to Melchester and stay there." He caressed the lovely wood so tenderly that Susan felt jealous. "Oh, you beauty!" he exclaimed passionately. "I believe in you; yes, I do. An artist created you. An artist painted those panels."
He recovered his cheerfulness, and assured Susan that he was prepared to back his opinion against Tomlin, Pressland, and all other pessimists.