“Poor little critters!” he muttered; “it was the only thing to do with ’em,” and he turned to Miranda.
The girl had backed out of the cave and now stood, with flushed face, staring at him fiercely.
“You brute!” she exclaimed.
Dave had been prepared for some discussion of his action. But he was not prepared for just this. He drew himself up.
“I did think ye was a woman grown; an’ for all yer idees were kind of far-fetched, I’ve respected ’em a heap; an’ I won’t say but what they’ve influenced me, too. But now I see ye’re but a silly child an’ don’t reason. Did ye think, maybe, these here leetle mites o’ things could live an’ take keer o’ themselves?”
He spoke coldly, scornfully; and there was a kind of mastery in his voice that quelled her. She was astonished, too. The colour in her face deepened, but she dropped her eyes.
“I wanted to take them home, and tame them,” she explained, quite humbly.
Dave’s stern face softened.
“Ye’d never ’a’ been able to raise ’em. They’re too young, a sight too young. See, their eyes ain’t open. They’d have jest died on yer hands, Mirandy, sure an’ sartain!”
“But—how could you!” she protested, with no more anger left, but a sob of pity in her throat.