ling, and being somewhat
chilled, placed the hat firmly upon his head, pulling it down as far
as it would go. It had a pleasant warmth, which he noticed at once. The
next instant, he noticed something else, a peculiar sensation of the
scalp--a sensation which he was quite unable to define. He lifted his
hand to take the hat off, and entered upon a strange experience: his hat
seemed to have decided to remain where it was.

"Do you like Tennyson as much as Longfellow, Mr. Kinosling?" inquired
Margaret.

"I--ah--I cannot say," he returned absently. "I--ah--each has his
own--ugh! flavour and savour, each his--ah--ah----"

Struck by a strangeness in his tone, she peered at him curiously through
the dusk. His outlines were indistinct, but she made out that his arms
were, uplifted in a singular gesture. He seemed to be wrenching at his
head.

"Is--is anything the matter?" she asked anxiously. "Mr. Kinosling, are
you ill?"

"Not at--ugh!--all," he replied, in the same odd tone. "I--ah--I
believe--UGH!"

He dropped his hands from his hat, and rose. His manner was
slightly agitated. "I fear I may have taken a trifling--ah--cold.
I should--ah--perhaps be--ah--better at home. I will--ah--say
good-night."

At the steps, he instinctively lifted his hand to remove his hat,
but did not do so, and, saying "Goodnight," again in a frigid voice,
departed with visible stiffness from that house, to return no more.

"Well, of all----!" cried Mrs. Schofield, astounded. "What was the
matter? He just went--like that!" She made a flurried gesture. "In
heaven's name, Margaret, what DID you say to him?"

"_I_!" exclaimed Margaret indignantly. "Nothing! He just WENT!"

"Why, he didn't even take off his hat when he said good-night!" said
Mrs. Schofield.

Margaret, who had crossed to the doorway, caught the ghost of a whisper
behind her, where stood Penrod.

"YOU BET HE DIDN'T!"

He knew not that he was overheard.

A frightful suspicion flashed through Margaret's mind--a suspicion that
Mr. Kinosling's hat would have to be either boiled off or shaved off.
With growing horror she recalled Penrod's long absence when he went to
bring the hat.

"Penrod," she cried, "let me see your hands!"

She had toiled at those hands herself late that afternoon, nearly
scalding her own, but at last achieving a lily purity.

"Let me see your hands!"

She seized them.

Again they were tarred!

CHAPTER XXVI THE QUIET AFTERNOON

Perhaps mi