The Imp Disposes
the wearer. On that occasion he had been drenched in mortification. He had hardly dared to lift his eyes above the waist of the scarlet dress. In fact he burrowed obstinately into the lap of it and refused to move. As he lay there, sobbing with rage and shame and sleepiness, clutching a ruffle like grim death, utterly oblivious to the hasty rush of masculine feet, the pulling of feminine fingers, the anxious "Has he hurt you? Let me help you up! Come here, child—let go!" he felt his hot little hand actually strengthened in its grasp on the ruffle by a cool, soft one, that came from under a surge of scarlet; he heard above the confusion a voice very near his own bowed head, a voice not rough, but with a strange sweet little shake in it that made the other women's voices sound high and thin.
"Let us alone, please! Don't you see how mortified we are? Please go away! We can help each other up, can't we, Boy?"
When angels out of heaven speak, it is in that tone, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
As the Imp lay there, and the footsteps gradually retreated, the murmur of voices softened, he became aware that the air around him was
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