“So here’s where ye be!” was his extraordinary greeting. “I told yer folkes I’d find ye an’ tell ’em how ye wuz livin’.”
“Are they so anxious about us?” asked Dollie, faintly. “I should have thought if they were anxious they might have answered our letters, for both Marion and I have written to mother.”
Silas Johnson eyed her curiously before he answered, much as if she were a stranger instead of the girl he had known from childhood.
“Waal, yew kain’t blame ’em fer not bein’ over pertik’lar about hearin,’” he said, bluntly. “When a gal’s run away an’ disgraced her fam’ly it’s ag’in natur not ter resent it a leetle.”
Dollie Marlowe blushed to the roots of her hair.
“Is that what you came to say to me, Sile?” she asked, hotly. “If it is, I’ll go on, for I’m tired and hungry.”
“No, tain’t all,” said Silas, with a peculiar leer. “I’ve got sumthin’ else tew say tew ye, but I calkulate the street is no place tew say it.”
“It will have to do, Silas,” said Dollie, decidedly, “for Marion is not at home, and I cannot ask you in. There is no one to hear; quick, what else have you to say to me?”
“Waal, ef I must, I must,” was the drawling answer, “tho’ tain’t exac’ly the place fer a man ter pop ther question.”
“What do you mean, Silas?” asked Dollie, sharply.