Ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk she dreaded, went at once into the library. Penhallow rising threw his cigar into the fire. She laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried, "Do smoke, James, I shall not mind it; I am forever disciplined to any fate. There is a spittoon in the hall—a spittoon!"
The Squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "I can wait for my pipe; we can't have any lapse in domestic discipline." Then he added, "I hear that my good Josiah has gone away—I may as well say, run away."
"Yes—he has gone, James." She hesitated greatly troubled.
"And you helped him—a runaway slave—you—" He smiled. It had for him an oddly humorous aspect.
"I did—I did—" and the little lady began to sob like a child. "It was—was wrong—" There was nothing comic in it for Ann Penhallow.
"You angel of goodness," he cried, as he caught her in his arms and held the weeping face against his shoulder, "my brave little lady!"
"I ought not to have done it—but I did—I did—oh, James! To think that my cousin should have brought this trouble on us—But I did—oh, James!"
"Listen, my dear. If I had been here, I should have done it. See what you have saved me. Now sit down and let us have it all out, my dear, all of it."
"And you really mean that?" she wailed piteously. "You won't think I did wrong—you won't think I have made trouble for you—"
"You have not," he replied, "you have helped me. But, dear, do sit down and just merely, as in these many years, trust my love. Now quiet yourself and let us talk it over calmly."