“They did it to me three years ago, when I was six. Grandfather called it ‘entering’ me.”
Taffy kept his eyes sullenly on the ground. Finding that he would not answer, she turned her horse again and rode slowly after the others. Taffy heard the soft footfalls die away, and when he looked up she had vanished.
He picked up his boots and started in the direction to which she had pointed. Every now and then a sob shook him. By-and-by the chimneys of the house hove in sight among the ridges, and he ran toward it. But within a gunshot of the white garden-wall his breast swelled suddenly and he flung himself on the ground and let the big tears run. They made little pits in the moving sand; and more sand drifted up and covered them.
“Taffy! Taffy! Whatever has become of the child?”
His mother was standing by the gate in her print frock. He scrambled up and ran toward her. She cried out at the sight of him, but he hid his blood-smeared face against her skirts.
[1] Mattock.
CHAPTER V.
TAFFY RINGS THE CHURCH BELL.
They were in the church—Squire Moyle, Mr. Raymond, and Taffy close behind. The two men were discussing the holes in the roof and other dilapidations.
“One, two, three,” the Squire counted. “I’ll send a couple of men with tarpaulin and rick-ropes. That’ll tide us over next Sunday, unless it blows hard.”
They passed up three steps under the belfry arch. Here a big bell rested on the flooring. Its rim was cracked, but not badly. A long ladder reached up into the gloom.