“You need not be afraid, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ayres, grimly and tenderly. “I will watch you, and—” She hesitated a moment, then she continued, “If I ever catch you buying that again—”
But Lucy interrupted.
“Oh, mother,” she said, “this last time it was not—it really was not—that! It was only something that would have made her sick a little. It would not have—It was not that!”
“If I ever do catch you buying that again,” said Mrs. Ayres, “you will know what a whipping is.” Her tone was almost whimsical, but it had a terrible emphasis.
Lucy shrank. “I didn't put enough of that in to—to do much harm,” she murmured, “but I never will again.”
“No, you had better not,” assented Mrs. Ayres. “Now slip on your wrapper and come down-stairs with me. I am going to warm up some of that chicken on toast the way you like it, for supper, and then I am coming back up-stairs with you, and you are going to lie down, and I'll read that interesting book we got out of the library.”
Lucy obeyed like a child. Her mother helped her slip the wrapper over her head, and the two went down-stairs.
After supper that night Sidney Meeks called at the Whitmans'. He did not stay long. He had brought a bottle of elder-flower wine for Sylvia. As he left he looked at Henry, who followed him out of the house into the street. They paused just outside the gate.
“Well?” said Henry, interrogatively.
“All right,” responded Meeks. “What it is all about beats me. The stuff wouldn't hurt a babe in arms, unless it gave it indigestion. Your boarder hasn't insanity in his family, has he?”