If people were not very much concerned about Mr. Brady’s death, they were at least very greatly infuriated against Amos Scott.
“No man’s life,” they said, “would be safe if the farmer was allowed to get off,—if those who considered themselves injured were suffered to take the law into their own hands and revenge themselves as they pleased.” With much more to the same effect, which Miss Moffat did not hear, and which would not have greatly affected her had she heard.
Never before had Grace felt so much shocked at the change a short time is capable of effecting as when she beheld Amos Scott.
He was worn almost to skin and bone; and there was a sad, weary, despairing look in his face that might well touch the heart of a woman who had known him in his prime of health and hope and prosperity.
There was a gentleness in his manner she had never perceived before. It seemed almost as though he had already passed through the gates of death and dropped the rude garments that concealed his finer and higher nature at the portals.
“Miss Grace; Miss Grace, why did you ever come to a place like this,” were his first words. “If the master had been alive he would not have suffered it.”
“Very probably not,” she answered. “He would have come for me in that case; now I am alone, I have no one.”
“Why did you demean yourself for the likes of me?” he asked.
“I am not demeaning myself,” she replied, “and I came to see you because, guilty or innocent, I cannot forget the past.”
“I am not guilty, Miss Grace.”