her hands, she looked up through her lashes at Lofty John, she smiled as slowly and seductively as she knew how—and Emily had considerable native knowledge of that sort. “Please, Mr. Lofty John,” she coaxed, “won’t you leave me the dear bush I love?”
Lofty John swept off his crumpled old felt hat. “To be sure an’ I will. A proper Irishman always does what a lady asks him. Sure an’ it’s been the ruin av us. We’re at the mercy av the petticoats. If ye’d come and said that to me afore ye’d have had no need av your walk to White Cross. But mind ye keep the rest av the bargin. The reds are ripe and the scabs soon will be—and all the rats have gone to glory.”
Emily flew into the New Moon kitchen like a slim whirlwind.
“Aunt Elizabeth, Lofty John isn’t going to cut down the bush—he told me he wouldn’t—but I have to go and see him sometimes—if you don’t object.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t make much difference to you if I did,” said Aunt Elizabeth. But her voice was not so sharp as usual. She would not confess how much Emily’s announcement relieved her; but it mellowed her attitude considerably. “There’s a letter here for you. I want to know what it means.”
Emily took the letter. It was the first time she had ever received a real letter through the mail and she tingled with the delight of it. It was addressed in a heavy black hand to “Miss Emily Starr, New Moon, Blair Water.” But—
“You opened it!” she cried indignantly.
“Of course I did. You are not going to receive letters I am not to see, Miss. What I want to know is—how comes Father Cassidy to be writing to you—and writing such nonsense?”
“I went to see him Saturday,” confessed Emily, realizing that the cat was out of the bag. “And I asked him
