Agnes gathered the little one close to her. “Good-by, and God bless you, dear little lad. I hope you will grow up to be a good man, Honey. You will forget all about your Nanny, but she will never forget you. Come, Carter.” She made no further appeal to the man standing there, and but once looked back after she and Carter turned to go. She saw that he had gathered the child into his arms and his head was bent upon that of his little son. A real compassion for him filled Agnes’s heart. “I can’t help feeling sorry,” she murmured.
“Sorry for that brute? I’d like to have called the coward out,” cried Carter. “The idea of his daring to address a lady in such fashion. If you had not restrained me, Agnes—”
“You would have fought him then and there. Yes, I know, and have given your mother cause to mourn the loss of a son more chivalrous than discreet. I thank you for your knightly intention, Sir Carter, but I think, in this instance, discretion was the better part of valor, don’t you?”
“Agnes, if any one were to present you to my mother, and tell her that you were a backwoods girl, she would scarce believe it.”
“She would not, and why?”
“Not because there are not some here worthy of being called gentle, but it isn’t the usual type; you are more like my own people, like gentlefolk.”
“And are there, then, no gentlefolk among the Scotch-Irish?”
“Many, no doubt, but they lose their manners when they are let loose in the wilderness. I do not know what they have been at home, but they certainly are a rough lot out here.”
“Not all, I hope.”
“Surely not all, for look at your mother; but on the other hand, look at Polly O’Neill, and Tibby McKnight, and Mydie McShane.”