When he had unrolled and wiped his gun he drew a shaky chair to the pine table and sat down. His daughter watched him, and when he bent his gray head she covered her eyes with one delicate hand.
“Lord,” he said, “it being Thanksgiving, I do hereby give Thee a few extry thanks.” And “Amen” they said together.
Jess stood warming herself with her back to the stove, watching her father busy with his bread and coffee. Her childish face was not a sad one, yet in her rare smile there was a certain beauty which sorrow alone brings to young lips and eyes.
Old man Jocelyn stirred his sugarless coffee and broke off a lump of bread.
“One of young Gordon’s keepers was here yesterday,” he said, abruptly.
His daughter slowly raised her head and twisted her dishevelled hair into a great, soft knot. “What did Mr. Gordon’s keeper want?” she asked, indifferently.
“Why, some one,” said old man Jocelyn, with an indescribable sneer—“some real mean man has been and shot out them swales along Brier Brook.”
“Did you do it?” asked the girl.
“Why, come to think, I guess I did,” said her father, grinning.
“It is your right,” said his daughter, quietly; “the Brier Brook swales were yours.”