“Well, what the devil do you want of me anyhow?” demanded the planter.
“How's your sister, Tom?” inquired Murrell.
“I reckon she's the way you'd expect her to be.” Ware dropped his voice to a whisper. Those women were just the other side of the logs, he could hear them at their work.
“Who's at Belle Plain now?” continued Murrell.
“Bowen's wife and daughter have stayed,” answered Ware, still in a whisper.
“For how long, Tom? Do you know?”
“They were to go home after breakfast this morning; the daughter's to come out again to-morrow and stay with Betty until she leaves.”
“What's that you're saying?” cried Murrell.
“She's going back to North Carolina to those friends of hers; it's no concern of mine, she does what she likes without consulting me.” There was a brief pause during which Murrell scowled at the planter.
“I reckon your heart's tender, too!” he presently said. Ware's dull glance shifted to Fentress, but the colonel's cold and impassive exterior forbade the thought that his sympathy had been roused.