“I 'spect she is waitin' for you, Aleck!” hazarded one of his friends.
There was a burst of laughter, for Squire Jefford's daughter, Mary, was known to be “a woman of her own head.”
The Sheriff laughed, too; but his laughter was not as mirthful as usual. He made an ineffectual attempt to keep up his jollity.
“I reckon I 'll go and see Mary,” he said at length.
He left the group with affected cheerfulness, but his heart was heavier than he liked to admit. He made his way to the “ladies' parlor,” as the little sitting-room in the south wing of the rambling old tavern, overlooking the court-green was called, and opened the door.
On one side of the wood fire, in a stiff, high-backed chair sat a young woman, in her hat and wrap and gloves, “jest a settin' and a waitin'.” She was a well-made and comely young woman under thirty, with a ruddy face, smooth hair and bright eyes that the Sheriff knew could both smile and snap. Her head was well set on rather plump shoulders; her mouth was well formed, but was now close drawn, and her chin was strong enough to show firmness—too much firmness, as Thompson mentally decided when he caught its profile.
The Sheriff advanced with an amiable smile. He was so surprised.
“Why, you here, Mary! When did you come?” His tone was affable and even testified pleasure. But Mary did not unbend. She was as stiff as the chair she sat in. Without turning her head she turned her eyes and looked at him sideways.
“ Mrs. Creel.”
There was a glint in her black eyes that meant war, and Thompson's countenance fell.