“Before young Gordon’s pa swindled me out o’ them,” observed Jocelyn, tearing off more bread. “And,” he added, “even old Gordon never dared post his land in them days. If he had he’d been tarred ’n’ feathered.”
His daughter looked grave, then a smile touched her eyes, and she said: “I hear, daddy, that young Gordon gives you cattle and seeds and ploughs.”
Jocelyn wheeled around like a flash. “Who told you that?” he demanded, sharply.
The incredulous smile in her eyes died out. She stared at him blankly.
“Why, of course it wasn’t true,” she said.
“Who told you?” he cried, angrily.
“Murphy told me,” she stammered. “Of course it is a lie! of course he lied, father! I told him he lied—”
With horror in her eyes she stared at her father, but Jocelyn sat sullenly brooding over his coffee-cup and tearing bit after bit from the crust in his fist.
“Has young Gordon ever said that to you?” he demanded, at length.
“I have never spoken to him in all my life,” answered the girl, with a dry sob. “If I had known that he gave things to—to—us—I should have died—”