“Mean old thing. If I was a man, I’d thrash him,” said Horace, doubling his little fists savagely.
“No, no, little ones; we must love him into kindness,” Mrs. Manning observed, gently. “He is a poor, lonely old man with no one to coax him into nice ways. See, Kitty isn’t hurt. Give her some milk and she will soon be quite happy again,” and in ministering to the kitten the children forgot their revengeful thoughts: but over the fence an old, cross-grained man went into his finer house with a mean feeling in his heart which even the thought of the Widow Barlow could not change to a comfortable complacency.
The rain cleared away and the family were very busy in the garden. The small plat on the south corner, away from the baleful shadow of the fence, was full of the roses and shrubs which the Widow Barlow had planted and tended so carefully, and they were already full of buds. Mrs. Manning was exceedingly fond of flowers, too, and her bay window on the west side was full of choice plants.
There was a Papa Manning, but he went early and came late from his work, too early and late to enter the story as an active factor; one of those busy men who do business in the city and live in suburban towns for the sake of health and purer air for the children; but Mr. Harding did not know this, and supposed his new neighbor to be a widow, and cherished suspicions accordingly which not even her sweet voice could quite allay.
“Oh, mamma, come quick. The man has fallen,” screamed Barbara one day, as she ran in to her mother, her golden curls flying, her blue eyes full of fright.
“What man, Barbie dear?” Mrs. Manning was in the kitchen making bread, and a man was an indefinite ingredient to enter into the delicate operation without proper credentials.
“The old man, mamma. The fence man—he fell right down and groaned.” A neighbor in distress—that was quite another matter, and Mrs. Manning ran out hastily, drying her hands on her apron.
“I’ve sprained my ankle, I guess,” growled Mr. Harding, nursing his wounded leg with a white face full of angry impatience. “Just a bit of a stone, but enough to turn that confounded weak bone of mine. I feel like a baby, ma’am, to be upset by such a trifle.”
“Lean on me, sir, and I will help you to rise,” said Mrs. Manning; but at the first attempt the poor old gentleman nearly fainted.
Fortunately, there were men near at hand, and soon Mr. Harding was carried into his home by strong hands, and a physician summoned.