I could not but think of the night, three months ago, when I had stood there on that very spot with Trayton Harrod, and when, at my request, he had consented to stay on at the farm and help us. He had stayed on, and he had done what he could. Was it his fault if he had not brought us help and happiness?
I remembered the night well; I remembered that then it had been warm, whereas now it was chilly. The twilight had faded and the night was dark, save for that fitful, fickle moon. A thin gauze of cloud hung now before the white disk, and the light that filtered through it showed another thin gauze of mist floating above the sea of dark marsh-land; the breeze that crept up among the aspens on the cliff had scarcely a memory of summer.
"What can be done?" asked I, in answer to that brief, terse declaration.
"There is only one thing that I can see," said he. "You are right; Hoad must be paid. It is not a matter of choice. The money must be borrowed to pay him with."
"Borrowed!" cried I. "From whom could we borrow it, even if we would? There is nobody who would lend us money."
"Yes, there is one man," said Harrod, quietly.
"You mean Captain Forrester," said I, "because you have seen him here so intimately with father; but I assure you"—I stopped; I had begun disdainfully, but I ended up lamely enough—"he has no money."
"No, I did not mean Captain Forrester," answered Harrod, with what I fancied in the half-light was a smile upon his lips, "I mean Squire Broderick."
I flushed again. I did not look at him.