“Good-bye,” he added, giving me his hand; “my last name is Casebolt. My mother is married the second time.”
I shook his great fat hand again, and he went back to his work. Driving round to the front of the house I found Agnes waiting for me, and, lifting her little trunk into the wagon, we drove away, no one appearing at the doors or windows to bid her good-bye. My mother had told me to invite Mrs. Deming to visit her, but out of regard for Agnes I resolved to say that I had forgotten it. As we went past the stables Big Adam motioned for me to stop, and raising himself up beside me by putting his foot on the wheel again, he whispered,—
“My brothers and sisters are all dead.”
He stepped down from the wheel; and putting the whip to the horses I soon left the place behind me.
I saw that Agnes had been crying, for her eyes were red and swollen; but I pretended not to notice it, and hoped her spirits would revive as we neared Fairview.
“You will excuse me, Ned,” she said, after we had driven a long time in silence, “if I have neglected you, but I have not been myself for several days. Big Adam talks a great deal, and I saw you down in the yard with him a long while. You should not believe all he says. I am unhappy on my own account.”
I did not know what to say in reply, for I was anxious for her to believe that I thought her mother was not at home, or something of that sort; so I jerked one of the horses roughly, and said “Whoa,” as if the animal were preparing to run away. I knew she was distressed that I knew how unhappy she was at home, and was trying to lay the blame on herself, as she did in everything; therefore I watched the dangerous horse very intently for several minutes, and finally got down to walk around the wagon, to see if anything was wrong. After I had pounded the tires awhile with a stone, although they were new, I climbed back into my seat, and we drove on again.
“The people of Fairview have been very kind to me,” Agnes continued, not minding that I did not care to talk on the subject, “and I have been happier there than here; although it is very ungrateful in me, and a poor return for the patient way in which they bear with me at home. I am so wicked and selfish.”
The tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and I wondered whether it was wrong to tell white lies, for I was sure Agnes was fibbing in defence of her family. She thought about the matter a long time after that, and looked at me narrowly,—although I pretended not to know it,—and seemed to conclude at last that I had made good use of my time with Big Adam, and that she must depend upon the charity of my silence. Any way, she said no more upon the subject, and we rode in silence for several miles.
“You have always taken a great interest in my father,” she said, at last, wiping her eyes, and dismissing the unpleasant subject. “I have brought you his picture as a present.”