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He had seen other sinners brought to a bloodless retribution in those columns by dauntless weapons of sarcasm and wit which in David Spafford’s hands could be made to do valiant work. He did not care to be humiliated in that way. He could not brazen it out.
He did not care to go back to the office, for his book was done, and he scarcely needed to go to his room at his boarding place yet either, for the afternoon was but half over and he wished his departure to appear to be entirely unpremeditated. A daring thought came into his head. He would walk past David Spafford’s house. He would let Marcia see him if possible.
Having at last succeeded in sealing her packet to her satisfaction and the diminishing of the stick of sealing wax she had found in the drawer, Miranda slid out the front door, and by a detour went to David Spafford’s office. “Good afternoon, Mr. Clark,” she said to the clerk importantly. “Grandma sends her respecks and wants to know ef you’d be so kind as to back this letter fer her to Mr.
But, on the other hand, things had occurred—not the unfortunate little mistake of yesterday, of course, but others, more serious things—that he would hardly care to have brought to the light of day, especially through the keen sarcastic columns of David Spafford’s paper.
Miranda found a candle on the shelf and, stooping to the smouldering fire upon the hearth, blew and coaxed it into flame enough to light it. “This is Mr. Spafford’s home, is it not?” questioned the old gentleman whom Miranda had heard speak first on the sidewalk. “Oh, yes, indeed,” said the girl glibly. “Jest come in and set down. Here, let me take your hats.
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