She pressed against me suddenly, and put her soft cheek against my sleeve.
“What is it, child, what is it?” I begged. I put my hand gently on her hair.
“I’m going away, Mr. Dale—I’m going! I been so happy here—with you and Joey and the birds.”
Her breaths were sobs.
It was my turn to say “Don’t!” I said it imploringly, and I added: “I cannot bear to see you cry, Wanza.”
“Oh, let me cry! I’m upset, and nervous, and—and sad—I guess you’d call it. I’m going on home now, and set things to rights a bit, and to-night I’m going to Hidden Lake to stay with Mrs. Batterly. I promised.”
“She needs you, Wanza,” I said.
“I was to ask you if you would ride through the woods with her, in a half hour. She’s not quite fit to go alone, Mr. Dale.” Suddenly Wanza broke into a tempest of tears, and sobbed and shook, huddled against my shoulder, stammering: “Everything is upside down—upside down! But—yes, Mr. Dale, I am glad—glad—that Mrs. Batterly has got a husband living. He’s probably a bad man, and if she wanted to run away it was all right and nobody’s business. But it had to come out that she had a husband, and I’m glad it’s come—that’s all! I’m glad it’s come—now—afore—”
I looked down at the opulent fleece of hair spinning into artless spirals of maze against my shoulder, and I threaded a curl through my fingers absently before I probed this significant, stumbling final sentence. Then I caught at the lost word. “Before, Wanza? Before—what!”
“Before you got to thinking too much of her.”