“Why didn’t you answer our letters, mother—Dollie’s and mine?” she asked, and then answered her own question without waiting for her mother.
“I suppose father would not let you,” she said, with some scorn, “and of course you were too scared to dream of disobeying him! It doesn’t seem possible that a woman could be so weak, but I forgive you, mother. I know he would only have made your life miserable for you.”
“Yew air tew hard on me, Marion,” said her father, faintly. He had always stood a little in fear of his daughter Marion.
The girl sprang to her feet and faced him, her cheeks flaming with indignation.
“No, I’m not, father!” she said, hotly. “I am not hard enough on you! You have broken up your own family and you ought to be ashamed of it!”
“Did I send Dollie away?” asked the farmer, flaring up a little. “Did I make her run away with that scapegrace, Lawson?”
“No, you didn’t do that, father,” said Marion, sadly, “but you condemned and disowned her as soon as she was gone, when you might have known that Dollie was innocent.”
“Waal, any father would hev done the same, I reck’n,” said the old man, lamely, “but ef I did wrong, I’m a-gittin’ paid fer it, there’s no use denyin’ that, Marion.”
His mood had softened and his lips were twitching suspiciously.
As Marion looked at him she seemed suddenly to realize how old and worn he was, and in an instant her heart was bleeding for him.