asked who it was, Fan said,'Sir Philip.' Ho! she need n't
think I believe it! I saw 'em laugh, and blush, and poke one another,
and I knew it was n't about any old Queen Elizabeth man," cried Maud,
turning up her nose as far as that somewhat limited feature would go.

"Look here, you are letting cats out of the bag. Never mind, I thought
so. They don't tell us their secrets, but we are so sharp, we can't help
finding them out, can we?" said Tom, looking so much interested, that
Maud could n't resist airing her knowledge a little.

"Well, I dare say, it is n't proper for you to know, but I am old enough
now to be told anything, and those girls better mind what they say, for
I 'm not a stupid chit, like Blanche. I just wish you could have heard
them go on. I 'm sure there 's something very nice about Mr. Sydney,
they looked so pleased when they whispered and giggled on the bed, and
thought I was ripping bonnets, and did n't hear a word."

"Which looked most pleased?" asked Tom, investigating the kitchen boiler
with deep interest.

"Well, 'pears to me Polly did; she talked most, and looked funny and
very happy all the time. Fan laughed a good deal, but I guess Polly is
the loveress," replied Maud, after a moment's reflection.

"Hold your tongue; she 's coming!" and Tom began to pump as if the house
was on fire.

Down came Polly, with heightened color, bright eyes, and not a single
egg. Tom took a quick look at her over his shoulder, and paused as if
the fire was suddenly extinguished. Something in his face made Polly
feel a little guilty, so she fell to grating nutmeg, with a vigor which
made red cheeks the most natural thing in life. Maud, the traitor, sat
demurely at work, looking very like what Tom had called her, a magpie
with mischief in its head. Polly felt a change in the atmosphere, but
merely thought Tom was tired, so she graciously dismissed him with a
stick of cinnamon, as she had nothing else just then to lay upon the
shrine. "Fan's got the books and maps you wanted. Go and rest now. I 'm
much obliged; here 's your wages, Bridget."

"Good luck to your messes," answered Tom, as he walked away meditatively
crunching his cinnamon, and looking as if he did not find it as spicy as
usual. He got his books, but did not read them; for, shutting himself up
in the little room called "Tom's den," he just sat down and brooded.

When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted with
a general "Happy b