She had waited to wash the evening dishes, lingering over them as though she were unwilling to finish, but she had said a reluctant good-by at last and had gone away down the hill. Beatrice sat on the doorstep looking after her, and lingered long after she was gone, watching the darkness deepen between the tree trunks, and the fireflies moving to and fro. It had been an over-busy day with the result that she was very tired. It was surely the worst possible moment that Dabney Mills could have chosen to come striding through the dark, whistling with irritating shrillness.
“There are all sorts of rumors about John Herrick’s being hurt,” he began at once, “so I came up to see if I could get the real facts. I tried to interview the old doctor when he was down in the village, but I didn’t have much satisfaction. Now, you will have no objection to telling me a few things, I feel sure.”
On that very spot, Beatrice thought, he had been told once, twice, it was difficult to say how many times, that his presence was unwelcome and that he would be told nothing. Yet here he was again, as inquisitive and as well-assured of success as ever.
“I don’t see why you keep coming and asking things,” she said irritably, “when we never tell you anything.”
“A fellow can never tell,” he replied easily, “where he can pick up a few facts, even in the most unlikely places. I won’t say this is a very hopeful one, but there’s nowhere else to go. I hear your aunt has been nursing Herrick. Now I could make something very interesting out of that.”
His insinuating grin, half visible in the dark, was quite beyond bearing.
“Why shouldn’t she be nursing him when she is his own sister?” she cried hotly, a sudden burst of temper driving her quite beyond the bounds of prudence.
Dabney’s mouth opened to speak, but no words came—only at last a long whistle of astonishment.
“Sister!” he ejaculated; then repeated it to himself, “Sister!”
Beatrice said nothing, for she began to have an uneasy feeling that harm might come from her hasty speech.