What would Grace Jerrold think of his bringing Fawnie into his house, protecting her? She would understand; she would sympathize. But the child—she must never know of that; he grew hot all over at the very thought of her knowing it. Anyway, the night was insufferable, no wonder he was hot. Not the faintest ripple disturbed the sombre ebony of the lake. He longed for a storm to clear the air. Awful weather on the strawberries. Thank God, he would have plenty of pickers tomorrow. Fresh crates were needed. He must order them. . . .
It was late when he went into the house. The oil lamp was still burning on the dresser at the head of the stairs. Mrs. Machin evidently had forgotten it. He began to ascend slowly to put it out, but had only mounted a few steps when he perceived that she herself was sitting in a straight-backed chair by the dresser knitting at a grey stocking.
"Whatever are you doing up so late?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Well," she said, her needles clicking with precision, "now that yon girl has got into one of our bedrooms I'm going to see to it that she stays there."
"You don't mean to say you are going to sit there all night?"
"It looks like it, don't it?" she snapped.
There was nothing more to be said, so Derek went to his room.
