“But you hate me,” muttered Harry, “and I don’t blame you.” He looked across at Arthur miserably with tear-stained face. “You do, don’t you?” he insisted. Arthur frowned impatiently. At last,
“No, I don’t hate you,” he answered. “Maybe I ought to; I don’t know. But you’re only a kid, and I guess you’re sorry, Harry.”
“I am!” exclaimed the other eagerly and earnestly. “I’d do anything in the world if I could—could undo it, Arthur!”
“Then get those plaguey books out of sight, and wash your face.”
Harry picked up the albums with a final sniffle and strode to the open window with them. Arthur leaped to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” he exclaimed.
“I’m going to pitch them out,” replied Harry. But Arthur pushed him back.
“Don’t be a silly fool,” he said, more kindly.
“Yes, I am! They—they made all the trouble!”
The attempt to lay the blame on the stamp albums made Arthur smile.