“O,” said Sizzum, “ef them devils has got her, that’s the end of her. I haint got no more interest in her case. I believe I’ll go. I’ve wasted too much time now from the Lord’s business.”
He moved to go.
“What am I to do?” said Mr. Clitheroe.
Forlorn, bereaved, perplexed old man! Any but a brute would have hesitated to strike him another blow. Sizzum did not hesitate.
“You may go to the devil across lots, on that runt pony of yourn, with your new friends, for all I care. I’ve had enough of your daughter’s airs, as if she was too good to be teched by one of the Lord’s chosen. But she’ll get the Lord’s vengeance now, because she wouldn’t see what was her place and privileges. And you’re no better than a backslider. You’ve been grumblin’ and settin’ yourself up for somebody. I would cuss you now with the wrath to come if such a poor-spirited granny was wuth cussin’.”
The base wretch lashed his horse and galloped off.
Even his own people of the mail party looked and muttered contempt.
Mr. Clitheroe seemed utterly stunned. Guide, Faith, Daughter, all gone! What was he to do, indeed!
“Never mind, Mr. Clitheroe,” said Brent, tenderly, “I hope you have not lost a daughter. I know you have gained a son,—yes, two of them. Here, Jake Shamberlain!”
“Here, sir! Up to time! Ready to pull my pound!”