Melissa received this exposition of her country's code with wondering, luminous eyes. It had a wild, unreasonable sound which was a sufficient guarantee of its correctness. The doings of authorities were liable to be misty by reason of elevation. The fault lay in her limited vision.
"I s'pose the law's right. An' the law said the cañon didn't belong to mother. I think that ought to 'a' settled it. I don't see any good in it all,—this talkin' so loud, an' scoldin', an' callin' people names. Do you, Sandy?"
"I hain't seen much good come of it," confessed the man reluctantly; "but it's human to talk,—it's human, M'lissy. Some folks find it relievin', an' it don't do any harm."
The young girl did not assent. Deep down in her placid, peace-loving nature was the obstinate conviction that it did a great deal of harm. She sat down in the velvety burr-clover, clasping her hands about her knees.
"Is Flutterwheel Spring more 'n mother's share o' the cañon?" she inquired.
"Yes, I think it is. Of course I never measured the water, an' I didn't admit it when Forrester said so; but I'd 'a' resked sayin' it was, if anybody else'd asked me."
"Why wouldn't you say so to him?"
Lysander laughed, and flipped a pebble toward a gray squirrel, who gave a little rasping, insulted bark, and whisked into his hole in high dudgeon.
"Well, because he ain't a-lackin' for information, an' I hain't got none to spare, M'lissy."
The young girl rocked herself gently in the clover.