The officer’s reply to the volley of questions came with characteristic directness.
“That’s Miss Seton, Miss Helen Seton, sister of the one they call—Kate. They’re sort of farmers, in a small way. Been here five years.”
“Farmers?” Bill’s scorn was tremendous. “Why, that girl might have stepped off Broadway, New York, yesterday. Farmers!”
“Nevertheless they are farmers,” replied Fyles, “and they’ve been farming here five years.”
“Five years! They’ve been here five years, and that girl—with her pretty face and dandy eyes—not married? Say, the boys of this place need seeing to. They ought to be lynched plumb out of hand.”
Fyles smiled as he drew his horse up at the point where the trail merged into the main road of the village.
“Maybe it’s not—their fault,” he said dryly.
But Bill’s indignation was sweeping him on.
“Then I’d like to know whose it is.”