“Who says that?” Henry asked, in a sharp voice.
“Why, it's the common talk! Surely, thee's heard of it before?”
“No!”
Henry set his lips together in a manner which Abraham understood. Considering that he had fully performed his duty, he said no more.
That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming to herself at the window, began singing “Bonnie Peggie Alison.” Her father looked at De Courcy, who caught his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to leave the room.
“Stop, De Courcy,” said the former; “I've heard a piece of news about thee to-day, which I want thee to make clear.”
“Shall I go, father?” asked Sylvia.
“No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory. I think he is beginning to need it. I've learned which way he rides on Seventh-day evenings.”
“Father, I am old enough to choose my way,” said De Courcy.
“But no such ways NOW, boy! Has thee clean forgotten? This was among the things upon which we agreed, and you all promised to keep watch and guard over yourselves. I had my misgivings then, but for five years I've trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so nearly over—”