The bailiff again. What was the matter with Deborah, that she could not leave me and him alone?
"Mr. Harrod knows his way about the country quite well enough by this time to find it for himself," I said.
I did not look at Deborah, but I knew very well that her face wore a kind of expression of defiant mischief with which I was familiar.
"I'm sorry you're still set again the poor young man," said she, provokingly.
But there was a very different ring in her voice when she spoke again in a few minutes, and when I looked up I saw that an unwonted gentleness had overspread her hard, rough features.
"If you haven't seen your father since breakfast," she added, "maybe you don't know as he's had another o' them queer starts at his heart."
"No. What kind of thing?" asked I, frightened.
"Oh, you know; same as he had in the winter, only not so bad. There, you needn't be terrified," added she; "it's nothing bad much—only lasted a minute or two. He called and asked me for a glass of water, and I fetched the missis. He was better afore she came. But it's my belief he's neither so young nor so well as he was."
This was evident; but neither Deb nor I saw the joke—we were too serious.
"And it's my belief he's fretting over something, Margaret," added she, gravely. "So if this here new chap saves him any bother, I suppose folk should need be pleased."