"I make sport of you. No, no, little one. I love you far too well for that. It is only my way. But come, take my arm and let's walk. I have something to say that can not be postponed, and some one might interrupt us here," added Poynter.
"But can't you come to the house, Clay? It don't seem right for me to meet you in this manner," hesitated Nora.
"Your father is at home, and you know what he said the last time I called. If any one else had spoken to me in that way, Nora, he would—" And then pausing abruptly for a moment, he added: "But what has he told you about me, pet?"
"About you? Why—" faltered the maiden.
"Come, Nora, it is better that I should hear it from you than him. No matter how harsh or unjust it may be, I shall not forget that he is your father."
"Oh, Clay, it was dreadful!"
"So bad as that? Well, my shoulders are broad and I can bear it. And it was—?"
"Must I tell?" she pleaded.
"Nora!"
"Well, then," with a sigh, "he said that he had heard you were connected with a gang of horse-thieves and counterfeiters; and although he had no positive proof against you, as yet, he forbade my speaking to you until he gave me leave."