"Do you take that in your own hands, Tyntie, as soon as may be," he said; "or no—take it this instant, down to the beach, and throw it, can and all, into the water. And see to it that you make mention o' this matter to no one."
Then turning slowly, he took his way again to the front of the house, Dorothy following in silence, and feeling unwontedly awed by the apprehension of the storm she felt was about to break; for it was a rare matter indeed for Aunt Penine to be the one entirely at fault in anything.
CHAPTER X
Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to join her, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to see your father."
At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had left her father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisible writings upon the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings against the oaken polish.
He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing a moment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.
"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and as though not wishing to be disturbed.
Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who was waiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into the sunshiny morning.
They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pashar coming from a side door of the house. His black hand held something white, which he was thrusting into the pocket of his jacket.