the short white muslin blind at
Uncle Bobo and Joy. What was she thinking about? For her thin lips
were parted as if she were speaking to some one, and her long fingers
worked convulsively with the strings of her black alpaca apron.

Presently the door opened softly, and Bet came creeping in. She never
knew what reception she might get, and she had the miserable cowed
manner of a beaten dog.

"Grandmother!"

Mrs. Skinner started, and said sharply--

"Well, what do you want?"

"Isn't she pretty? Isn't she a darling?"

"Stuff and nonsense! I don't care about beauty; it's only skin deep;
and I dare say she's a pert little hussy. Don't go and bring her here
again, I don't want her."

CHAPTER VII.

_DARK DOINGS._

When Mr. Skinner had escorted Miss Pinckney home after their walk, he
seated himself at supper with the air of one who was thoroughly at home
and at his ease.

"He knows on which side his bread is buttered," Uncle Bobo's Susan
said, as she had watched Miss Pinckney walking up the row with her
tall, ungainly suitor.

For Uncle Bobo was right. Mr. Skinner had every intention of coming to
the point; though, I need not say, it was not his custom to go straight
to the point.

Mr. Skinner always preferred a circuitous route.

When they were seated at supper Mr. Skinner said--

"You have had no tidings of your runaway, I presume, Mrs. Harrison?"

This question was asked as Mr. Skinner looked at Jack's mother with
that oblique glance Jack had boldly called a "squint."

Patience shook her head. She could not bring herself to talk of her
boy to Mr. Skinner.

"Ah," he said, "what a home he has left, and what a friend! When I
think of Miss Pinckney's generosity and nobility of temper, I grieve
that they were expended on so unworthy an object."

The colour rose to Mrs. Harrison's cheeks.

"You will be so kind, Mr. Skinner," she said, "not to talk about my
boy. It is not a matter I care to speak of to any one."

"True, true!" was the reply. "'Least said, soonest mended.' But I
suppose I may be permitted to offer my humble tribute of admiration to
my dear, kind friend, who always gives me a welcome to her hospitable
board."

Here Mr. Skinner stretched out his long, thin fingers, and laid them
gently on Miss Pinckney's, who was in the act of handing him another
triangular cut from the pork pie, which had been the _piece de
resistance_ of the supper-table.

"Oh! dear me, Mr. Skinner,