“In my day there were no Millers in Farleigh—except the moth millers,—dusty-millers, we used to call them. I remember Miss Penny, however,—a little old maid who always came to church. She drove a fat pony. I suppose that is dead long ago?”
“I’m learning to drive him. I feed him sugar every day,” said Alice. “But I am wasting time. Suppose you ask me questions.”
“Well, suppose you tell me a bit more about that Cartwright fellow you mentioned yesterday.”
Alice paled. She didn’t want to think of Dick Cartwright now.
“I was all wrong,” she said in a low, pained voice. “He wasn’t good. He was—O, a dreadful man.”
“Why Miss Lorraine! what do you mean?” he asked. And she thought he had noticed her secret pain.
“I can’t tell you what he did. Mr. Langley told me in confidence and I really ought not to say anything,” she returned sadly. “Mr. Langley’s the only one who—well, he’s very anxious that this Richard Cartwright should be forgotten.”
“But I thought—didn’t you tell me yesterday that Mr. Langley was this man’s friend?”
“O yes. But this is on account of the son, Reuben. He’s a fine boy, everyone says, and he’s in college. Mr. Langley doesn’t want him to know how bad his father was. And he doesn’t want people to be thinking and talking of him for fear—well, he says it is best that he be forgotten.”
“I told you I knew Mr. Langley once. I should have thought of him as being faithful to the end of things,” he said bitterly.