“Why, the boat's crew,” said Cissy.
“Why do you call them runaways?”
“I don't know. Didn't YOU?” said Cissy simply. “Didn't you say they never came back to Horse Shoe Bay. Perhaps I had it from aunty. But I know it's damp and creepy; and when I was littler I used to be frightened to be alone there practicing.”
“Why?” said the preacher quickly.
“Oh, I don't know,” hurried on Cissy, with a vague impression that she had said too much. “Only my fancy, I guess.”
“Well,” said Brother Seabright after a pause; “we'll see what can be done to make a clearing there. Birds sing best in the sunshine, and YOU ought to have some say about it.”
Cissy's dimples and blushes came together this time. “That's our house,” she said suddenly, with a slight accent of relief, pointing to a weather-beaten farmhouse on the edge of the gorge. “I turn off here, but you keep straight on for the Mills; they're back in the woods a piece. But,” she stammered with a sudden sense of shame of forgotten hospitality, “won't you come in and see aunty?”
“No, thank you, not now.” He stopped, turning his gaze from the house to her. “How old is your house? Was it there at the time of the wreck?”
“Yes,” said Cissy.
“It's odd that the crew did not come there for help, eh?”