"My sister."
"Sally!" called Seth Dumbrick. "Here's your brother wants to see you."
Sally came up from the cellar, accompanied by the Duchess. They stood by Seth's side, who proceeded with his work in silence. Ned Chester gave Sally a wrathful look, and made as though he would clutch her. Seth, an attentive observer of every look and movement, interposed his arm.
"What's that for?" cried Ned Chester, fancying that he saw his opportunity.
Seth Dumbrick looked at his bare arm contemplatively, as though that was the subject upon which Ned Chester desired information. His shirt sleeves were tucked up to his shoulders, and his muscles made no mean display.
"What's that for?" he echoed, holding out his arm, and straightening it, so that his clenched fist almost touched the young man's face.
Ned Chester started back with an exclamation of alarm; he was not a brave man.
"Are you going to hit me?" he cried.
"No," said Seth Dumbrick; "there's no call to hit you, I take it. I thought you asked what my arm was for. Well, it's for work. Yours is for play, I suppose. But as my arm has come into the conversation, let me tell you that it's an arm that can take its own part, though it's many a year ago since it struck anything more sensible than leather."
The hint was too plain to be mistaken. Ned Chester turned to Sally.