“Good morning,” she said, again. She was perfectly self-possessed. Remembrance of our transit of Mullet's cranberry brook did not seem to embarrass her in the least. Nellie Dean would have giggled and blushed, but she did not.
I was embarrassed, I admit it, but I had sufficient presence of mind to remove my hat.
“Good morning,” said I. There flashed through my mind the thought that if she had been in that grove for any length of time she must have overheard my lively interview with Kendrick and Tim Hallet. I wondered if she had.
Her next remark settled that question.
“I suppose,” she said, soberly, but with the same twinkle in her eye which I had observed once or twice in her father's, “that I should apologize for being here, on your property, Mr. Paine. I judge that you don't like trespassers.”
I was more nettled at Zeb and his crowd than ever. “So you saw that performance,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
“I saw a little of it, and I'm afraid I heard the rest. I was walking here by the bluff and I could not help seeing and hearing.”
“Humph! Well, I hope you understand, Miss Colton, that I did not know, until just now, this sort of thing was going on.”
She smiled. “Oh, I understand that,” she said. “You made that quite plain. Even those people in the wagon understood it, I should imagine.”
“I hope they did.”