“It’s Mrs. Brooke’s little girl, sir.”
“I told you so!” sounded from Dulcibel.
“Is Mrs. Brooke indoors?”
“No sir; Mrs. Brooke has left this morning quite sudden—she said she was obliged. She’s been gone two hours and more.”
Husband and wife exchanged looks, Dulcibel of course muttering once again—“I told you so!”
George Rutherford’s fair, good-humored face had taken a stern set.
“Where has Mrs. Brooke gone?”
“I don’t know, sir, indeed. But there’s a letter for you, sir, and perhaps that’ll make things clear, for I confess I don’t understand about Miss Joan, and that’s a fact, seeing Mrs. Brooke took her away to see friends, and you found her all alone at the shaking bridge. I don’t understand it, sir; but would you please to step in and sit down? I’m sorry things aren’t straighter—it’s early yet, you see. I’ll get the letter, sir.”
Dulcibel accepted one chair, and George another, Joan leaning against his knee. “That woman is not Welsh,” Dulcibel remarked, in Flint’s absence.
“No; English. She came, when her husband died, to live with his parents, and since their death this cottage has belonged to her. I believe her husband was a soldier; and she has two sons now in the army, who help to keep her.” George spoke abstractedly, adding—“This seems strange.”