He chuckled. "I will come. I can tell some Irish fairy-stories that my mother taught me."
During one winter he was assiduous in his attendance upon Miss Robeson and her Children's Club. He walked with her there and back when the weather was fine. Mrs. Eleutheria Stonard finally remonstrated.
"My dear Katharine, do you know that people are talking? Of course, I presented young Dwyer to you, but I did not foresee a furious intimacy."
" How absurd! Let them talk."
"But he may be a Jesuit in disguise. They brought him up after he was orphaned. He may flirt with you merely for the sake of the small fortune with which you could directly endow Holy Church, and indirectly himself."
"Pshaw! Clergyman or cavalier, no woman could take him seriously. He can repeat tales of leprechauns and phookas that send lovely shivers down your spine, but as for his religion—he is only a Parlor Buddhist, who believes in Mahatmas and flying teacups, though he won't take tea between meals!"
Mrs. Eleutheria, in her capacity of social superintendent, promptly quoted this speech in such a way that it came with emphasis to Kevin Dwyer. He did not appear on the next occasion to escort Katharine Robeson to the South End. At first she was merely puzzled. A week elapsed, and she wrote to his address, inquiring if he were ill. There was no answer. After another week, Miss Robeson looked him up in the Directory, which confirmed the address he had given. Without hesitation she went thither on foot. The house was on a dully respectable thoroughfare, and she interviewed the landlady, a motherly Hibernian.
"Is it Misther Dwyer, Mum? Sure, he's gan to wan av thim haythin counthries. What's this it is—Chicago—Chili"
"China?" gasped Katharine.
"'Tis roight ye are, Miss. Chiny. Poor bye, he looked that sorrowful it moight have been Purgatory."
"When did he go?"
"Noine days ago Mondah week."
"And left no word?"
"Sure, an' he did. A note fur a lady, but the name of her is unbeknown to me. There do be just the two front letters. Maybe it is yourself can tell them, dear!"
She looked slyly at Katharine. The girl turned scarlet, but did not flinch.
"K. R.," she said distinctly.
"Thrue fur ye. Sure, an' 'tis the good taste Misther Dwyer have.
