“I’d rather,” put in the planter, taking advantage of the other’s hesitancy, “I’d rather not speak of her now.”
This was said almost supplicatingly.
“And why not now, uncle?” asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.
“You know my reasons, nephew?”
“Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing—supposed to be—After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again.”
“Never! we shall never see him again—living or dead. I have no longer a son?”
“You have a daughter; and she—”
“Has disgraced me!”
“I don’t believe it, uncle—no.”
“What means those things I’ve heard—myself seen? What could have taken her there—twenty miles across the country—alone—in the hut of a common horse-trader—standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him—him, the murderer of my son—her own brother? O God!”