This had been the state of affairs for more than a week,
and Alan was becoming somewhat restless. He was not a saint, but
only one of the next best things, a bright, lovable boy; and
having rather exhausted his resources of reading, playing
solitaire, and talking to his mother, the evening usually found
him decidedly cross after his dull day, and he only half responded
to the girls' attempts to be entertaining.
"I don't see what's come over Alan," said Molly, one afternoon, as
the girls were walking home from school together. "Pie's always
been so jolly, and now he's cross as can be. He doesn't act as if
he wanted to have anything to say to us, and goes off to bed as
soon as he can, after supper. I told him last night I thought he'd
better be ashamed of himself."
As Molly spoke, they were just passing the Hapgood house. Polly
glanced up at Alan's window, in the wing, to see the back of a
yellow head, inside the glass. Molly followed the direction of her
eyes, and said, by way of explanation,--
"Alan's not down-stairs to-day. He said he didn't feel like it."
"He isn't?"
Polly paused irresolutely at the gate, then turned in.
"What are you going to do, Polly?" asked Florence.
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