“He’ve a great grief,” I repeated, sighing, “an’ he’ve been wicked.”
“Oh, no—not wicked!”
“Ay,” I persisted, gently, “wicked; for he’ve told me so with his own tongue.”
“Not wicked!”
“But he’ve said so,” I insisted, nettled, on the instant, by my sister’s perversity.
“I’m thinkin’ he couldn’t be,” she said.
“Sure, why not?” I demanded.
She looked away for a moment—through the window, into the far, starlit sky, which the light of the moon was fast paling; and I thought my question forgot.
“Why not, sister?”
“I—don’t know—why not!” she whispered.