The young man looked at the chocolate dress, the yellow leaves, the falling hair, and answered gravely,—­a little coldly, Sharley thought,—­that his prospects were not encouraging just now.  Perhaps they never had been encouraging; only that he in his young ardor had thought so.  He was older now, and wiser.  He understood what a hard pull was before young architects in America,—­any young architect, the best of young architects,—­and whether there was a place for him remained to be proved.  He was willing to work hard, and to hope long; but he grew a little tired of it sometimes, and so—­He checked himself suddenly.  “As if,” thought Sharley, “he were tired of talking so long to me!  He thought my question impertinent.”  She hid her face in her drooping hair, and wished herself a mile away.

“There was something you once told me about some sort of buildings?” she ventured, timidly, in a pause.

“The Crumpet Buildings.  Yes, I sent my proposals, but have not heard from them yet; I don’t know that I ever shall.  That is a large affair, rather.  The name of the thing would be worth a good deal to me if I succeeded.  It would give me a start, and—­”

“Ough!” exclaimed Sharley.  She had been sitting at his feet, with her face raised, and red eyes forgotten, when, splash! an icy stream of water came into her eyes, into her mouth, down her neck, up her sleeves.  She gasped, and stood drenched.

“O, it’s only a rain-storm,” said Moppet, appearing on the scene with his empty dipper.  “I got tired of sleeping.  I dreamed about three giants.  I didn’t like it.  I wanted something to do.  It’s only my rain-storm, and you needn’t mind it, you know.”

Dripping Sharley’s poor little temper, never of the strongest, quivered to its foundations.  She took hold of Moppet without any observation, and shook him just about as hard as she could shake.  When she came to her senses her mother was coming in at the gate, and Halcombe Dike was gone.

* * * * *

“I s’pose I’ve got to ’tend to that hollering to-night,” said Moppet, with a gentle sigh.

This was at a quarter past seven.  Nate and Methuselah were in bed.  The baby was asleep.  Moppet had thrown his shoes into the water-pitcher but twice, and run down stairs in his nightgown only four times that evening; and Sharley felt encouraged.  Perhaps, after all, he would be still by half past seven; and by half past seven—­If Halcombe Dike did not come to-night, something was the matter.  Sharley decided this with a sharp little nod.