“Where is she?” he exclaimed. He ran out into the summer kitchen where Jinny was at work over the wash tub. “Where are they gone—the Indian woman?”
“Are they no there?” said Jinny, coming into the kitchen, wiping her dripping arms. “They’ll be ben the hoose. Hush, now, y’re mither is resting,” she added, passing into the living room, followed by Paul.
“They’re gone,” said Paul aghast, “and with that sick baby.”
“Aye,” said Jinny grimly, “and I hope there was no need for hurry.”
“What do you mean, Jinny?” asked Mr. Gaspard. “Oh, I see. Well, you need not fear. Indians do not steal.”
“Steal?” said Paul, his face aflame with indignation. “I think it is just mean to appose she would steal. She is a good woman, and she just kissed and kissed Mother’s hands for curing her baby.”
“Aw, weel, I’d lippen till nane o’ them.”
“Steady, Paul,” interposed his father. “Jinny doesn’t know them as we do. We will investigate a bit. Where did you find her?”
“I’ll show you, Daddy,” said Paul, hurling a blighting look upon Jinny, who returned undisturbed to her tub.
Together they hurried up the path toward the big pine root. Arrived there, the cry of a child lured them farther up the hill. Paul was off like a hound on the trail. In a very few moments his voice came back through the bushes in remonstrance.