“I have been wondering what sort you are.  I have got cousins at home, and they do anything in the world I like.  I wonder if you would.”

Ben had been very cross with Kathleen when she had knocked to him and David from the dining-room window, but he was not cross now.  He was only thirteen, and up to the present no pretty girl had ever taken the slightest notice of him.  He was a plain, sandy-haired boy, with a freckled face, a wide mouth, and good-humored blue eyes.

“You make me laugh whenever I look at you,” was Kathleen’s next candid remark.

“I didn’t know that I was so comical,” was his answer.

“Perhaps you don’t like it.”

“I can’t say I do.”

“Well, this is the Palace of Home Truths,” said Kathleen, laughing.  “I asked your darling, saintly sister just now which was the most wicked—­to tell a polite lie, or a frightfully rude home truth.  She said that a polite lie was an awful sin, so in this house I must cleave to the home truths.  I could tell you, you know, that you have quite a fascinating smile, and a very taking voice, and a delightful and polished manner; but I prefer to tell you that you are comical, which means that I feel inclined to burst out laughing whenever I look at you.”

“Thank you,” said Ben, who could be very sulky when he liked.  “Then I will take my objectionable presence out of your sight.  I have got my lessons to do.”

Kathleen raised her brows and gave a slow smile.  Ben got as far as the door.

“Benny,” she said then in a most seductive whisper.

He turned.

“I am so glad you are in.”

“I should not have thought so.”

“But I am.  It is awfully lonely for a girl like me, who has got dozens of cousins at home, and uncles and aunts and all the rest of the goodly fry, to be stranded.  I like David.  I am quite smitten with David; and I like you, too.  You can be a great friend of mine.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Ben.

He thought it would be very good fun to tell the other fellows about the charming Irish girl who liked him so much.

“I wonder if you’d help me, Ben.”

“What can I do?” asked Ben.

“Sit down, and let’s be cozy.  I will sit in the tired one’s chair, and you can sit on that little stool at my feet.  Now isn’t that nice?”

“Who do you mean by the tired one?”

“Your mother, silly boy, of course.”

“It is a very ridiculous name to call her.”

“It belongs to the Palace of Home Truths.  Your mother is tired, and you—­you lazy omadhauns—­”

“Well, go on,” said Ben.  “I see by your manner that you want me to do something.  I suppose it’s something a little bit—­a little bit not quite good.”

“It is perfectly good.  I’ll love you ever so much if you will do it.”

“What is it?”

“I am going out this evening.  I may not be in until late.  If the others are in bed, will you come and unlock the door for me when I throw gravel up at your window?  You must tell me which is your window.”