"Well, he's out," repeated I. "He has gone to Mrs. Jarrett's. The little boy died last night."
"Oh, I'm sorry, very sorry," said he. "I know he was very fond of the child." And then, after a minute, he added, "But it's really very important that I should see your father at once, Miss Margaret. Could you not go across and tell him so?"
"No," said I, ungraciously. "I don't think I could; I shouldn't like to disturb him." And then, half penitently, I added, "Can't I help you?"
He smiled, but gravely. "No," answered he; "I'm afraid this time your father must decide for himself."
"Is it ruin?" I asked, after a minute. "I suppose so."
He started and looked at me sharply. "What do you mean?" he asked. "No, I sincerely hope it's nothing of the kind."
"Oh," answered I, "I was afraid there wasn't a chance after this gale of anything but ruin to the whole crop."
"You mean the hops," replied he, as if relieved; and it did not strike me at the time to wonder what he could have thought I meant. "I'm afraid it's a bad lookout for them. That's why I want to see your father at once. It must, I fear, alter some arrangements I have made. I must telegraph." He paused a moment, thinking; then he added, "Is the squire expected here to-day, do you know?"
I flushed. "Not that I know of," said I; "but how should I know? He never comes to the Grange now."
I jerked out these sentences foolishly, incoherently.