"Reckon they'll last my time," drawled Sandy. "I hear they aim to roll food up in pills an' do us cattlemen out of a livin'. But I ain't worryin'. Me, I prefers steaks—somethin' I can set my teeth in. I reckon there's mo' like me. Let me make you 'quainted with Miss Bailey, Molly. This is Molly Casey, whose dad is dead. Molly, if you-all want to skip out an' tend to them chickens, hop to it."
Molly caught the suggestion that was more than a hint and started for the door. The woman checked her with a question.
"How old air you, Molly Casey?"
The girl turned, her eyes blank, her manner charged with indifference that unbent to be polite.
"Fifteen." And she went out.
"H'm," said Miranda Bailey, "fifteen. Worse'n I imagined."
Sandy's eyebrows went up. The breath that carried his words might have come from a refrigerator.
"You goin' back in the flivver?" he asked, "or was you aimin' to keep a-lookin' fo' that red-an'-white heifer?"
Miranda sniffed.
"I'm goin', soon's as I've said somethin' in the way of a word of advice an' warnin', seein' as how I happened this way. It's a woman's matter or I wouldn't meddle. But, what with talk goin' round Hereford in settin'-rooms, in restyrongs, in kitchens, as well as in dance-halls an' gamblin' hells where they sell moonshine, it's time it was carried to you which is most concerned, I take it, for the good of the child, not to mention yore own repitashuns."