“It is here, friend,” said she, giving him the missive. “I hope thee can get it through, for my cousin is sore beset with grief for news of her father. And there is money for thee. Thou art a good man, and hast a kind heart.”
“Thank you,” he said saluting, and Peggy could not have told how he concealed the note, it was done so adroitly.
“Why did thee speak so sharply to him, John?” she queried when at length they had started.
“Those girths should be attended to before bringing the horses round,” he answered. “’Tis done to get money from you girls. He never sees us but that he comes forward under some pretense of doing a service. I like not his actions. How doth it come that he is attending the horses? He is not your father’s man.”
“I know not,” answered Peggy. “Doth it really matter? Fie, fie, John! thee is cross. I never saw thee so before.”
“Your pardon,” said the lad contritely. “I meant not to be so, but men require sharp treatment, and perchance I have brought my parade manner with me.”
The girls laughed, but a constraint seemed to be over all three. Harriet was unusually silent, and Peggy, though conscious of no wrong-doing, was ill at ease.
The feeling was intensified as, when they had gone some distance, young Drayton wheeled his horse suddenly.
“Let us go back,” he said abruptly.
“Why?” exclaimed both girls simultaneously, but even as they spoke they saw the reason. A few rods in front of them, suspended from the limb of a tree, hung the limp body of a man.