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“What?” cried the astonished Doctor Ingraham.

“She don’t wants to be married mit you.”

“Did Miss Bailey send you with any message to me?”

The question was so fierce that the truth was forced from the unwilling lips of the spokesman.

“No ma’an–no sir,” they faltered. “On’y that’s the feeling what she had. Und so you go away now ‘out seeing Teacher, me und the other fellows we gives you FIVE cents.”

The cabinet drew near to hear the answer to this suggestion. It puzzled them, for–

“Now, look here, boy,” said Doctor Ingraham, “you’d better go home and get to bed. You aren’t well.”

Morris conferred with his colleagues and returned with:

“We gives you SEVEN cents so you go home now ‘out seeing Teacher. A nickel und two pennies so you go now. Und say, Miss Blake could to go by your side. She has kind feelings over you.”

“Nonsense,” said the man. “When will your teacher be down?”

“She ain’t coming at all. She has no more feelings. So you goes now we gives you a dime and a penny. ELEVEN cents. We ain’t got it; on’y we could to get. Teacher gives me all times pennies.”

Just as the stranger was wondering how much of truth these extraordinary children knew, Teacher, calm-eyed and unruffled, appeared upon the scene. She said, as she generally did:

“Doctor Ingraham! Who would have thought to find you here!” And then, “Are you talking to my little people? They are the cleverest little things, and such friends of mine. Morris here and I are the greatest of cronies.”

Teacher’s manner, as she began her greeting, was serene and bright, but a gloomy, even a morose, glance from Doctor Ingraham’s cold blue eye quite changed her. His voice too, considered as the voice of love, sounded sulkily as he said:

“So it seems. He has given me an answer which you refused me.”

“How generous of Morris and how thoughtful! He’s always trying to save me trouble. And the question, now, to which the answer belonged. May one know that?”

“You know it well enough,” with a glance up and down the deserted alley, for even Patrick had realized that discretion is the better part of statesmanship.

“Oh that ” said Teacher. “And Morris’s answer?”

“No.”

“They really are the cleverest children.”

“Little brutes! I can’t think why you come down here every day. The brats aren’t in the least grateful.”

“But they are. They think me perfection.”

“That is the contagion of mental states.”

“And they’re not fond of you.” “That’s it again, I suppose.” And, as Teacher made no sign of having heard, he went on: “Tea, do you know, is a dreadful bore.”

“Of course, but cold tea is worse. And the cakes are so shattered towards the end. Come.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going. I’m tired of this sort of thing. Answer me now.”

“But the children,” faltered Teacher. “I should miss them so.”

At this sign of weakening Doctor Ingraham favoured the queer old street with a tableau to which it long had been a stranger. And the cabinet, creeping back to reconnoitre, immediately guessed the worst. Said Morris:

“She’s lovin’ mit him und he’s loving mit her. They’ve got loving looks. I had once a auntie–“

This was too much for the torn spirit of the Leader of the Line. He laid violent hands–and feet–upon the Monitor of Gold Fish. The Monitor of Window Boxes promptly followed suit. Morris’s prolonged yell of agonized surprise brought Teacher flying to the rescue. And Teacher brought Doctor Ingraham. While the latter held and restrained Patrick and Nathan, Miss Bailey lavished endearments and caresses on her favourite. The captor grew as restless as his captives under this aggravation, and at last allowed his charges to escape.

“Look here!” he remonstrated; “I can’t stand this sort of thing, you know. It’s cruel.”

But Teacher’s ears were all for Morris’s tale of sorrow.

“I don’t know what is mit Patrick,” he was saying. “He hits me a hack somethin’ fierce sooner I says about mine auntie. Und Nathan, too, is bad boys. He says you lies.”