"There was nothing to taunt me about. Mayn't I have a friend?"
"Why," she retorted lightly, mechanically re-counting the bits of paper, "friend indeed! What about all those Pollackes and Monneries mother's so full of? You will soon be flitting to quite another sphere. It's the old friends that then will be left mourning. You won't sit moon-gazing then, my dear."
"No, Fanny," I said stubbornly, "I've had enough of that, just for the present."
"Sst!" she whispered swiftly, raising her head and clasping the notes to her breast beneath her cloak, "what was that?"
We listened. I heard nothing—nothing but sigh of new-born leaf, or falling of dead twig cast off from the parent tree. It was early yet for the nightingale.
"Only the wind," said she.
"Only the wind," I echoed scornfully, "or perhaps a weasel."
She hurriedly divided my savings and thrust my share into my lap. I pushed it in under my arm.
"Good heavens, Midgetina!" she cried, aghast. "You are almost naked. How on earth was I to know?"