“Well, I can't help it. I've been so mean to him; to Car—to Carter. And he loves—he loves me so. He's so good and—and good and—and I've been so—”
“Hush! It will be all right, Gay,” Lorna comforted. “Stop now. Pretend you've not been crying, anyway; here comes a farmer.”
Gay wiped her eyes and looked down the road. Up the hill a rig was coming slowly, one flat wheel thumping the road with a rattle of loose tire at each revolution, while it, or another wheel, screeched nerve-rackingly. In the shafts was an aged gray horse that stopped now and then to swish its tail and turn its head in an attempt to bite a horsefly on its withers. In the cart sat a fat man, a very fat man, and he objurgated the old horse vociferously.
“Dod-baste you!” he cried. “Get along there. Giddap! Go on! Dod-baste you, you're enough to make a saint swear, you old lummox, you!”
Saint Harvey of Riverbank was returning from his travels.
CHAPTER XXV
That noon Henrietta hurried across the road to the Bruce mansion and found Judge Bruce on the porch, wiping his face and resting, after his walk up the hill, before going in for his midday meal.
“Carter here?” she asked rather breathlessly.