Tommy thought this affection for herself barely respectable, but he dared not say so lest he should be put to the door.

"I love her ever so much," Grizel went on, "and she is so fond of me, she hates to see me unhappy.

Don't look so sad, dearest, darlingest," she cried vehemently; "I love you, you know, oh, you sweet!" and with each epithet she kissed her reflection and looked defiantly at the boy.
"But you canna put your arms round her and hug her," he pointed out triumphantly, and so he had the last word after all.

Unfortunately Grizel kept this side of her, new even to Tommy, hidden from all others, and her unresponsiveness lost her many possible friends.

Even Miss Ailie, who now had a dressmaker in the blue-and-white room, sitting on a bedroom chair and sewing for her life (oh, the agony--or is it the rapture ?--of having to decide whether to marry in gray with beads or brown plain to the throat), even sympathetic Miss Ailie, having met with several rebuffs, said that Grizel had a most unaffectionate nature, and, "Ay, she's hardy," agreed the town, "but it's better, maybe, for hersel'." There are none so unpopular as the silent ones.
If only Miss Ailie, or others like her, could have slipped noiselessly into Double Dykes at night, they would have found Grizel's pillow wet.
But she would have heard them long before they reached the door, and jumped to the floor in terror, thinking it was her father's step at last.