“M’liss says she knows where Risty is, but she won’t tell,” said the lawgiver, not heeding the warning. The words were scarcely uttered before M’liss’s red hand flashed in the air and descended with a sounding box on the traitor’s ear. Lycurgus howled, Mrs. Morpher darted into the corner, and M’liss was dragged defiant and struggling to the light.
“Oh, you wicked, wicked child—why don’t you say where, if you know?” said Mrs. Morpher, shaking her, as if the information were to be dislodged from some concealed part of her clothing.
“I didn’t say I knew for sure,” at last responded M’liss. “I said I thought I knew.”
“Well, where do you think he is?”
But M’liss was firm. Even the gloomy picture of the future state devised by McSnagley could not alter her determination. Mrs. Morpher, who had a wholesome awe for this strange child, at last had recourse to entreaty. Finally M’liss offered a compromise.
“I’ll tell the master, but I won’t tell you—partikerly him,” said M’liss, indicating the parson with a bodkin-like dart of her forefinger.
Mrs. Morpher hesitated. Her maternal anxiety at length overcame her sense of dignity and discipline.
“Who knows where the master is, or where he is to be found to-night?” she asked hastily.
“He’s over to Dr. Duchesne’s,” said Clytie eagerly; “that is,” she stammered, a rich color suddenly flushing from her temples to her round shoulders, “he’s usually there in the evenings, I mean.”
“Run over, there’s a dear, and ask him to come here,” said Mrs. Morpher, without noticing a sudden irregularity of conduct in her firstborn. “Run quick!”