“Can you keep a secret, Swot?”
“Bet youse life.”
“This is for Dr. Armstrong.”
Swot regarded it with new interest. “Youse goin’ to s’prise ’im?”
“Yes.”
“Den youse must sneak it quick w’en he comes in.”
“Haven’t you noticed that he doesn’t come here any longer, Swot?” quietly responded the girl, her head bowed over the work.
“Oin’t dat luck!”
“Why?” asked Constance, looking up in surprise.
“’Cause youse can work on de present,” explained Swot. “Say,” he demanded after a pause, “if dere’s anyting on de tree dat Ise don’t cares for, can Ise give it to de doc?”