"What is the matter, Uncle George? What makes you look so?"
"That man is a bad man, dear," he replied; "and has the kind of badness I most despise." But he did not tell her that he was the man who was responsible for the Indians being driven out of their home. He thought it better for Rea not to know it.
"Are there different sorts of badness,—some badnesses worse than others?" asked Rea.
"I don't know whether one kind is really any worse than another," said Mr. Connor. "But there are some kinds which seem to me twice as bad as others; and meanness and cruelty to helpless creatures seem to me the very worst of all."
"To me too!" said Rea. "Like turning out poor Ysidro."
"Yes," said Mr. Connor. "That is just one of the sort I mean."
Just before they reached the beginning of the lands of Connorloa, they crossed the grounds of a Mr. Finch, who had a pretty house and large orange orchards. Mr. Finch had one son, Harry, about Jusy's age, and the two boys were great cronies.
As Mr. Connor turned the horses' heads into these grounds, he saw Jusy and Harry under the trees in the distance.