Dad don't;
nor I don't."

"Here, you may have the fig-paste," said the old lady. "Shut the drawer.
Mind you, Solomon, nor Tom either, ever did them any real harm. Solomon
was a kind boy, only mischievous--that was all the harm there was to
him. Even when he painted Isaac Weight's nose in stripes, he meant no
harm in the world; but 'twas naughty all the same. He said he did it to
make him look prettier, and I don't know but it did. Don't you do any
such things, do you hear?"

"Yes'm," said Tommy Candy.

CHAPTER IV.

OLD FRIENDS

It was drawing on toward supper-time, of a chill October day. Mrs. Tree
was sitting in the twilight, as she loved to do, her little feet on the
fender, her satin skirt tucked up daintily, a Chinese hand-screen in her
hand. It seemed unlikely that the moderate heat of the driftwood fire
would injure her complexion, which consisted chiefly of wrinkles, as has
been said; but she always had shielded her face from the fire, and she
always would--it was the proper thing to do. The parlor gloomed and
lightened around her, the shifting light touching here a bit of gold
lacquer, there a Venetian mirror or an ivory statuette. The fire purred
and crackled softly; there was no other sound. The tiny figure in the
ebony chair was as motionless as one of the Indian idols that grinned at
her from her mantelshelf.

A ring at the door-bell, the shuffling sound of Direxia's soft shoes;
then the opening door, and a man's voice asking some question.

In an instant Mrs. Tree sat live and alert, her ears pricked, her eyes
black points of attention. Direxia's voice responded, peevish and
resistant, refusing something. The man spoke again, urging some plea.

"Direxia!" said Mrs. Tree.

"Yes'm. Jest a minute. I'm seeing to something."

"Direxia Hawkes!"

When Mrs. Tree used both names, Direxia knew what it meant. She appeared
at the parlor door, flushed and defiant.

"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree! There's a man at the door, a tramp,
and I don't want to leave him alone."

"What does he look like?"

"I don't know; he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Wants something to
eat. Most likely he's stealin' the umbrellas while here I stand!"

"Show him in here," said Mrs. Tree.

"What say?"

"Show him in here; and don't pretend to be deaf, when you hear as well
as I do."

"The dogs--I was going to say! You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree.
He's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest-lookin'--"