“Well, miss,”—the rocking grew impressive, portentous, climatic. “Somebody has been usin' 'em at night.”
“Oh, Mary!”
“Yes, miss. And it must'a' been that Sara. Like as not she sneaks off and meets some feller down the road, or even over to Pine Cone. And her a married woman! Pleased she'd be to fix the blame of her bad doin's on you. What would Mrs. Brane think, miss, if she seen you, one of these moonlight nights as bright as day, a-walkin' away from her house at some unseemly hour. Ir-reg'lar, she'd call it! Yes, miss. It makes my blood boil!”
“It is certainly not a pleasant idea,” I said dryly—“No, miss; to put it mild, not pleasant, not a bit. Well, miss, I found your cloak this morn-in' hangin' in its place and the hem drenched with dew. You can see for yourself if you go down in the hall. Now, it stands to reason, if you'd worn it yourself, the hem would n't'a' touched the grass hardly, but a short woman like Sara is—”
“Unless I had sat down on a low rustic bench,” I put in.
“Well, miss, was you out last night?”
“No, Mary—unless I've been walking in my sleep.”
She looked a little startled, and stared at me with round, anxious eyes to which tears came.
“Oh, miss, I don't think it. Really and truly I don't.”
She had not seen the strand of red-gold hair about Robbie's fingers and the kind soul had diligently weeded out any suspicions even of my unconscious complicity in Robbie's death.