"You could have got down all right from the second story by the big oak on the east side," said Henry. It was the first time he had contributed anything to the recital, and he spoke now in an impatient tone, as though the whole conversation bored him.
"Has it occurred to you," asked Burton thoughtfully, "that all these incidents bear the same marks of freakishness and mischief rather than of venomous malice? They are like the tricks a schoolboy might play to get even with some one he had a grudge against. They are not like the revenge a man would take for a real injury or a deep-felt grievance."
He glanced up at Dr. Underwood as he spoke, and caught the tail end of a scrutinizing look which that careless gentleman was just withdrawing from Henry's unconscious face. The furtive watchfulness of that look was wholly at variance with the offhand tone in which he answered Burton.
"I have not the slightest doubt you are right about that. It was mere foolishness on the part of some ignorant person, who wanted to do something irritating, and probably enjoyed the feeling that he was keeping us all agog over his tomfoolery."
"Oh, but it was more than nonsense," cried Leslie. "You forget about the fires. One night, Mr. Burton, Mrs. Bussey left the week's washing hanging on the lines in the back yard, and in the morning we found that it had all been gathered into a heap and burned. That was carrying a joke pretty far. And soon afterwards there was an attempt to burn the house down."
"Come, Leslie, let me tell that incident," interposed her father. "We found, one morning, a heap of half-charred sticks of wood on the front doorstep. It looked sinister at first sight, of course, but when I examined it, I was sure that there had been no fire in the sticks when they were piled on the step, or afterwards. It was a menace, if you like, but as Mr. Burton points out about those other matters, it was rather a silly attempt at a scare than a serious attempt at arson. Don't paint that poor devil any blacker than he is, my girl. He has probably realized long ago that it was all a silly performance, and we don't want to go about harboring malice."
"Of course not. Only,--those things did actually happen to us, Mr. Burton."
"Don't say happen, Leslie," said Mrs. Underwood, with the curious effect she always had of suddenly coming back to consciousness at any word that struck her ethical mind. "Things don't happen to people unless they have deserved them. What seems to be accident may be really punishment for sin."
"Well, these things befell us after that fashion," said Leslie patiently, picking her words to avoid pitfalls of metaphysics. "Then they stopped. Everything went on quietly until a few weeks ago. Then things began again."
"Let me warn you, Burton," interposed Dr. Underwood again, "that this is where Leslie becomes fantastic. She has too much imagination for her own good. She ought to be writing fairy tales, or society paragraphs for the Sunday papers. Now go ahead, my dear. Do your worst."