“Well, maybe I do; but it isn’t right to kill them, I know.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange,” asked Holly presently, her eyes on the bread she was crumbling between her fingers, “that Mr. Winthrop never says anything about his wife?”
“I’ve never yet heard him say he had a wife,” answered Miss India.
“Oh, but we know that he has. Uncle Major said so.”
“I don’t reckon the Major knows very much about it. Maybe his wife’s dead.”
“Oh,” said Holly, thoughtfully. Then: “No, I don’t think she could be dead,” she added, with conviction. “Do you—do you reckon he has any children Auntie?”
“Sakes, child, how should I know? It’s no concern of ours, at any rate.”
“I reckon we can wonder, though. And it is funny he never speaks of her.”
“Northerners are different,” said Miss India sagely. “I reckon a wife doesn’t mean much to them, anyhow.”