Ella had stood watching with eyes puckered skeptically, and round face set in lines of no compromise. But now, without warning, she flung both her stout arms round the refugee.
“Wild Injuns!” she fumed. “What was I tellin’ ye? You’re all alike, you men-fo’ks. There, there, poor thing!” Awkward and motherly, she stroked the girl’s bright hair, scolding and consoling in a breath. “There, there, nubbin, you’re all of a quiver—all on a string. Worse ’n old Neptune, they are!—Miles, I left my knittin’ somewheres by that tree. Jest you hyper out an’ find it.”
Needles and all, it lay on the table before them, but Miles obeyed. He paced back and forth under the stars, watching the lighted window. He should be sorry for her, ran his thought. But his one clear emotion was nothing of the kind; buoyantly, against reason and through suspense, rioted the conviction that all was well. When the voices ceased within, he entered, and found the two women sitting like friends agreed. They smiled at him rather uncertainly.
“Well,” exclaimed the elder, whipping a handkerchief out of sight. “That’s settled, anyhow. She’ll stay here with us till she finds somewheres better.”
“But I forgot,” the girl objected. “All my things are there.”
“I’ll get them,” offered Miles.
“You’d look well,” the servant retorted grimly. “I’ll go my own self. Incidental, I’ll see that pair o’ shoats. And they won’t ask me to set and come again, either!”
“But,” said the girl, “they’ll come after me.”
“Let ’em!” cried Ella, with sudden extravagance. “I’ll set ’em down so hard they—they can comb their hair with their spinal columes! Let ’em come.”
For that night no one accepted the challenge; and next morning Ella promptly descended on Alward’s, to return in ferocious triumph, bearing a little armful of spoils.