“How are we safe?” she asked. “What are we safe from?”
“Why, from your friend.”
“My friend? Ah!” She understood now.
“Yes, he won't trouble us much more,” pursued Missy, sidling rhythmically from one foot to the other, while her eyes lit up the dairy. “O 'Bella, 'Bella, if you knew how I feel——”
“Stop a moment,” said Arabella, white as the milk that she had spilled in her agitation; “is he—is he—dead?”
“Dead? I wish he was. No, no; he's only in prison.”
“In prison?”
“Yes; run in the day before Christmas Eve—the day after I swep' him out o' this—no, the very day itself. See where you'd ha' been! 'Bella, 'Bella, let's drink his health in a pint of cream! It seems too good to be true.”
But Arabella was grasping with both hands the shelf which supported the bowls of milk for creaming, and her face was drawn and wretched.
“Don't, Missy!” she exclaimed with tears in her voice. “You wouldn't if you knew how sorry I am. What is he in prison for? What has he been doing?”