“Hello, there,” he exclaimed. “That looks pretty good. I’m hot. Pour me a glass, Agnes.”
She hesitated; and Wint said: “Take mine.”
“What’s the matter with it?” Amos asked good-naturedly. “Poisoned?” He lifted the glass to his nose. “Oh, brandy, eh? Well, got anything against that?”
“Oh, I’m on the wagon, myself, that’s all.”
Amos nodded. “Well, I never touch it. Not lately. Take it away, Agnes.”
His voice was gentle enough; but Wint thought the girl seemed very white and frightened as she faced her father. She took pitcher and glasses and went swiftly into the house. Amos turned to Wint, and sat down, and asked cheerfully:
“Well, young fellow, what’s on your mind?”
When their business was done, and Wint had gone, Amos sat quietly upon the porch for a while. Then, without moving from his chair, he turned his head and called toward the open door:
“Agnes!”