No answer came.
"Do you want anything?" she repeated. "Are you in trouble?" as the stolid misery of the dark face grew upon her.
"In—trouble!" The words dropped slowly, and a guttural laugh followed. "I like that!—I do!"
"Is your name Barclay?"
"Yer've hit it! My name's Barclay."
He mounted on the wooden bridge, a good step higher than the path on which he had stood; and all Jean's strength of nerve was required to keep her from flight; but she was convinced that her wisest plan was to show no alarm.
"Now yer mind! I've sommat to say to yer—if so be yer the Parson's darter."
Evidently he knew Jean by sight, though she had not known him.
"Mr. Trevelyan is my father."
"Then yer'll tell the Parson as how I don't want none of he! Nor none of his talk! Nor none of his preaching! Nor none of his religion!"