"Tell me!" was all she said. Then Martin slowly in a hushed voice, described all that had passed, even the vision of Sandy.
"The Lord-a'mighty, He knows I didn't mean to kill," Martin quivered; "but who-all will believe that? I meant to stay clean and fair for the boy's coming back, Miss Lowe, ma'am, deed I did, and now he'll come back to——" Martin could not frame the hideous truth in words; he gulped miserably and went on; "please, ma'am, keep—her, Molly, from Teale and them-all!"
"And you?" So simply did the question come that the man replied in kind.
"I—I can't let them-all cotch me, ma'am. Come morning, I'll be past hurting any one, more."
The childlike pathos in this criminal's voice and attitude confused the listener. For the life of her she could not deal with the situation in any ordinary fashion; it seemed like a dramatic incident bungled by amateurs. Presently she asked gently:
"Are you sure she is dead, Mr. Morley?"
The unreality held Martin, too.
"I reckon she is," he faltered; "I—I couldn't hear her heart—and she laid right still. I expect she is dead."
The ludicrous overpowered even the turn of possibility, and the little doctor said:
"You just mustn't kill yourself or harm Sandy unless it is necessary, you know. If you will go out and harness my horse to the buggy, you and I will make sure."