"Oh—everything, Ann!"
"Yes, you said everything before. S'pose you tell me jest the one thing as you find so wonderful? An'—why an' wherefore that blush?"
"Oh, Ann—Ann, dear!" Down went sock and needle and, falling on her knees, Hermione clasped her arms about Mrs. Trapes and hid her glowing face in her lap. "Ann, dear, I'm so happy!" she sighed—her speech a little muffled by reason of the voluminous folds of Mrs. Trapes's snowy apron.
"Happy?" said Mrs. Trapes, setting down her teacup to fondle and stroke that shapely head, "sich happiness ain't all because of the rent bein' re-dooced, by order, I reckon—is it?"
"Dear Ann," said Hermione, her face still hidden, "can't you guess?"
"No, my dear," answered Mrs. Trapes, her harsh tones wonderfully soft, "I don't have to—I guessed days ago. D' ye love him, Hermy?"
"Love him!" repeated Hermione, and said no more, nor did she lift her bowed head, but feeling the quick, strong pressure of those soft, embracing arms, the quiver of that girlish body, Mrs. Trapes smiled, and stooping, kissed Hermione's shining hair.
"When did he speak, my dear?"
"Last Monday, Ann."
"Did he say—much?"