“They are ours—Dollie’s and mine,” said Marion, calmly. “I shall use them as I think best——”
A scream finished the sentence.
“They are gone! The topazes are gone!” she cried, excitedly. “See, here is the chamois bag! It is completely empty!”
She held it up to the flickering light that fell from the tallow candle in her mother’s hand.
A double crime had been committed—abduction and theft. Marion sat down on the chest and burst out crying.
“It’s Dollie that’s done it!” bellowed Deacon Marlowe angrily. “It wasn’t enough fer her tew disgrace herself an’ us by runnin’ away with that air feller, but she must up an’ steal the topazes, the brazen hussy! She shall never darken my door ag’in! The wicked jade! the—the——”
“Hush, father! Don’t you dare to call Dollie names,” cried Marion. “If any one is to blame, it is that black-hearted scoundrel! Oh, I knew he was a villain! Why didn’t I watch him!”
Marion had sprung from the chest and was confronting the old farmer—her eyes scintillating with feeling, and her drawn lips were almost bloodless.
“My sister is innocent! Do you hear me, father! Shame on you for being the first to condemn your own daughter!”
Her voice was so sharp that it seemed to hiss through the air, and the old farmer shrank back as though she had struck him.