"Oh, that's where it is," said Deb, sagely, as if she had guessed a secret. "You're so set on Joyce frettin' over that young spark. But, Lor' bless my soul, Joyce don't care for him. She never have cared for him, so as to say, properly. She was took at first by his being such a fine fellow and seemin' so fond of her. 'Twas natural enough. And you was so set on it you made her believe she liked him better nor she did. But that ain't what's going to wash. She never loved the fellow."
"It's not true," cried I, with flaming eyes. "She did love him always, and she loves him just as much now."
Deb was not a bit put out by my impetuous sally. She only shook her head quietly, and repeated, "No, she don't. And a precious good thing, too, seeing he's so like to forget her and mate with his own class."
"You're talking nonsense, Deb," cried I, hotly. "Mate with his own class, indeed! We're as good as he any day."
"That may be," answered Deb, calmly, "but he don't think so. He were keen upon her pretty face at first, but he's cooled down now, and sees it wouldn't be a wise thing for him to do. It's a precious good thing Joyce don't care for him."
"I tell you Joyce does care for him," reiterated I, savagely.
"Now, I wonder whatever makes you so set upon Joyce being in love with that young man," said the old woman, looking at me sharply, and without paying the slightest attention to my passionate vindication of my sister's constancy.
"Oh, I know, you want her to marry the squire and be a lady, as mother does," retorted I. "But you needn't bother. The squire'll never propose to her."
"No, you're right there," laughed Deb, with a loud laugh that both puzzled and irritated me. "He won't. I don't rightly see as he could propose to any one in this house till folk are minded to give him a civil word now and then. But that ain't no reason why you should want your sister to wed where she don't love. Nay, Margaret, there's somethin' under that as we don't know of. What is it, eh?"
I looked at Deb defiantly, but her round black eyes were full of a rough and simple sympathy. I knew Deb well enough to recognize the signs of it, and my sore, struggling pride gave way. I forgot all about having insisted a minute ago that I had nothing to fret about, and that I was not fretting. Just as I had used to do when I was a child and mother had whipped me for messing my frock, I put my head upon her broad bosom and began to cry.