Harry Temple dropped Marcia’s wrists and groaned in pain, staggering back against the wall and sinking to the floor. But Miranda would not stay to see the effect of her punishment. She seized the frightened Marcia, dragged her toward the cupboard door, sweeping as she passed the pile of letters, finished and unfinished, into her apron, and closed the cupboard doors carefully behind her. Then she guided Marcia through the dark mazes of the store room to the hall, and pushing her toward the front door, whispered: “Go quick ’fore he gets his eyes open. I’ve got to go this way. Run down the road fast as you can an’ I’ll be at the meetin’ place first. Hurry, quick!”
Marcia went with feet that shook so that every step seemed like to slip, but with beating heart she finally traversed the length of the piazza with a show of dignity, passed the loungers, and was out in the road. Then indeed she took courage and fairly flew.
Miranda, breathless, but triumphant, went back into the kitchen: “I guess ’tain’t him after all,” she said to the interested woman who was putting on the potatoes to boil. “He’s real interesting to look at though. I’d like to stop and watch him longer but I must be goin’. I come out to hunt fer”—Miranda hesitated for a suitable object before this country-bred woman who well knew that strawberries were not ripe yet—“wintergreens fer Grandma,” she added cheerfully, not quite sure whether they grew around these parts, “and I must be in a hurry. Good-bye! Thank you fer the drink.”
Miranda whizzed out of the door breezily, calling a good morning to one of the hostlers as she passed the barnyard, and was off through the meadows and over the fence like a bird, the package of letters rustling loud in her bosom where she had tucked them before she entered the kitchen.
Neither of the two girls spoke for some minutes after they met, but continued their rapid gait, until the end of the corduroy road was in sight and they felt comparatively safe.
“Wal, that feller certainly ought to be strung up an’ walluped, now, fer sure,” remarked Miranda, “an I’d like to help at the wallupin’.”
Marcia’s overstrung nerves suddenly dissolved into hysterical laughter. The contrast from the tragic to the ridiculous was too much for her. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she cried in earnest. Miranda stopped and put her arms about her as gently as a mother might have done, and smoothed her hair back from the hot cheek, speaking tenderly:
“There now, you poor pretty little flower. Jest you cry ’s hard ’s you want to. I know how good it makes you feel to cry. I’ve done it many a time up garret where nobody couldn’t hear me. That old Satan, he won’t trouble you fer a good long spell again. When he gets his evil eyes open, if he ever does, he’ll be glad to get out o’ these parts or I miss my guess. Now don’t you worry no more. He can’t hurt you one mite. An’ don’t you think a thing about what he said. He’s a great big liar, that’s what he is.”
“Miranda, you saved me. Yes, you did. I never can thank you enough. If you hadn’t come and helped me something awful might have happened!” Marcia shuddered and began to sob convulsively again.
“Nonsense!” said Miranda, pleased. “I didn’t do a thing worth mentioning. Now you jest wipe your eyes and chirk up. We’ve got to go through town an’ you don’t want folks to wonder what’s up.”