After considerable persuasion on the part of the sheriff and his kindly wife, Moll repeated her story to Gwynne. She was abashed before this elegant young man. A shyness and confusion that had been totally lacking in her manner toward the other and older men took possession of her now, and it was with difficulty that she was induced to give him the complete details of all that took place in her father's cabin.
When he shook hands with her as he was about to take his departure, she suddenly found courage to say:
"Kin I see you alone fer a couple of minutes, Mr. Gwynne?"
"Certainly, Miss Hawk," he replied, gravely courteous. "I am sure Mr. and Mrs.—"
"Come right in the sitting-room, Mr. Gwynne," interrupted the housewife, bustling over to open the door.
Moll stared blankly at her counsel. No one had ever called her Miss Hawk before. She was not quite sure that she had heard aright. Could it be possible that this grand young gentleman had called her Miss Hawk? Still wondering, she followed him out of the kitchen, sublimely unconscious of the ridiculous figure she cut in the garments of the older woman.
"Shut the door," she said, as her keen, wood-wary eyes swept the room. She crossed swiftly to the window and looked out. Her lips curled a little. "Most of them people has been standin' out yonder sence nine o'clock, tryin' to see what sort of lookin' animile I am, Mr. Gwynne. Hain't nohody got any work to do?"
"Vulgar curiosity, nothing more," said he, joining her at the window.
"'Tain't ever' day they get a chance to see a murderer, is it?" she said, lowering her head suddenly and putting a hand to her quivering chin. For the first time she seemed on the point of breaking down.
He made haste to exclaim, "You are not a murderer. You must not think or say such things, Miss Hawk."