“She is a good child,” observed Mrs. Gurridge affectionately, after awhile.
“Or she wouldn’t be her father’s child.”
“Or your daughter, Hephzibah,” said Sarah Gurridge sincerely.
The two relapsed into silence. The glowing coals in the stove shook lower and received augmentation from the supply above. Darkness was drawing on.
Prudence was holding the Free Press out towards the dying light and the man was protesting. The latter is already known to us. His name was Leslie Grey, now an under-official of the Customs department at the border village of Ainsley.
“Don’t strain your eyes in this light, dear,” he was saying. “Besides, I want to talk to you.” He laid his hand upon the paper to take it from her. But the girl quickly withdrew it out of his reach.
“You must let me look at the personal column, Leslie,” she said teasingly, “I just love it. What do you call it? The ‘Agony’ column, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” the man answered, with some show of irritation. “But I want–––”
“Of course you do,” the girl interrupted. “You want to talk to me––very right and proper. But listen to this.”
Grey bit his lip. Prudence bent her face close to the paper and read in a solemn whisper––