“What do you mean by that, you little savage?” said McSnagley quickly.
M’liss turned scornfully away. “Go,” she said,—“go if you want to,” and resumed her seat in the corner.
The master hesitated. But he could not withstand the appeal in the eyes of the mother and daughter, and after a short inward struggle he turned to McSnagley and bade him briefly “Come.”
When they had left the house and stood in the road together, McSnagley stopped.
“Where are you goin’?”
“To Smith’s Pocket.”
McSnagley still lingered. “Do you ever carry any weppings?” he at length asked.
“Weapons? No. What do you want with weapons to go a mile on a starlit road to a deserted claim. Nonsense, man, what are you thinking of? We’re hunting a lost child, not a runaway felon. Come along,” and the master dragged him away.
Mrs. Morpher watched them from the door until their figures were lost in the darkness. When she returned to the dining-room, Clytie had already retired to her room, and Mrs. Morpher, overruling M’liss’s desire to sit up until the master returned, bade her follow that correct example. “There’s Clytie, now, gone to bed like a young lady, and do you do like her,” and Mrs. Morpher, with this one drop of balm in the midst of her trials, trimmed the light and sat down in patience to wait for Aristides, and console herself with the reflection of Clytie’s excellence. “Poor Clytie!” mused that motherly woman; “how excited and worried she looks about her brother. I hope she’ll be able to get to sleep.”
It did not occur to Mrs. Morpher that there were seasons in the life of young girls when younger brothers ceased to become objects of extreme solicitude. It did not occur to her to go upstairs and see how her wish was likely to be gratified. It was well in her anxiety that she did not, and that the crowning trial of the day’s troubles was spared her then. For at that moment Clytie was lying on the bed where she had flung herself without undressing, the heavy masses of her blond hair tumbled about her neck, and her hot face buried in her hands.