Mr. Hamlin uttered an exclamation under his breath, and rose to his feet.

“What did you say?” asked the boy quickly.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Hamlin.

But it had sounded to Leonidas like an oath.

Mr. Hamlin walked a few steps, as if stretching his limbs, and then said:  “And you think Burroughs would have been bitten?”

“Why, no!” said Leonidas in astonished indignation; “of course not—­not Burroughs.  It would have been poor Mrs. Burroughs.  For, of course, he set that trap for her—­don’t you see?  Who else would do it?”

“Of course, of course!  Certainly,” said Mr. Hamlin coolly.  “Of course, as you say, he set the trap—­yes—­you just hang on to that idea.”

But something in Mr. Hamlin’s manner, and a peculiar look in his eye, did not satisfy Leonidas.  “Are you going to see her now?” he said eagerly.  “I can show you the house, and then run in and tell her you’re outside in the laurels.”

“Not just yet,” said Mr. Hamlin, laying his hand on the boy’s head after having restored his own hat.  “You see, I thought of giving her a surprise.  A big surprise!” he added slowly.  After a pause, he went on:  “Did you tell her what you had seen?”

“Of course I did,” said Leonidas reproachfully.  “Did you think I was going to let her get bit?  It might have killed her.”

“And it might not have been an unmixed pleasure for William Henry.  I mean,” said Mr. Hamlin gravely, correcting himself, “You would never have forgiven him.  But what did she say?”

The boy’s face clouded.  “She thanked me and said it was very thoughtful—­and kind—­though it might have been only an accident”—­he stammered—­“and then she said perhaps I was hanging round and coming there a little too much lately, and that as Burroughs was very watchful, I’d better quit for two or three days.”  The tears were rising to his eyes, but by putting his two clenched fists into his pockets, he managed to hold them down.  Perhaps Mr. Hamlin’s soft hand on his head assisted him.  Mr. Hamlin took from his pocket a notebook, and tearing out a leaf, sat down again and began to write on his knee.  After a pause, Leonidas said,—­

“Was you ever in love, Mr. Hamlin?”

“Never,” said Mr. Hamlin, quietly continuing to write.  “But, now you speak of it, it’s a long-felt want in my nature that I intend to supply some day.  But not until I’ve made my pile.  And don’t you either.”  He continued writing, for it was this gentleman’s peculiarity to talk without apparently the slightest concern whether anybody else spoke, whether he was listened to, or whether his remarks were at all relevant to the case.  Yet he was always listened to for that reason.  When he had finished writing, he folded up the paper, put it in an envelope, and addressed it.

“Shall I take it to her?” said Leonidas eagerly.

“It’s not for her; it’s for him—­Mr. Burroughs,” said Mr. Hamlin quietly.