“It was that drunken old scoundrel of a Morrison who began it!” cried Bartley, in angry desperation. Marcia dropped her hand from his shoulder, while her father worked his jaws upon the bit of stick he had picked up from the pile of wood, and put between his teeth. “You know that whenever he gets on a spree he comes to the office and wants Hannah's wages raised.”
Marcia sprang to her feet. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it! I told you she would get you into trouble! I told you so!” She stood clinching her hands, and her father bent his keen scrutiny first upon her, and then upon the frowning face with which Bartley regarded her.
“Did he come to have her wages raised to-day?”
“No.”
“What did he come for?” He involuntarily assumed the attitude of a lawyer crossquestioning a slippery witness.
“He came for—He came—He accused me of—He said I had—made love to his confounded girl.”
Marcia gasped.
“What made him think you had?”
“It wasn't necessary for him to have any reason. He was drunk. I had been kind to the girl, and favored her all I could, because she seemed to be anxious to do her work well; and I praised her for trying.”
“Um-umph,” commented the Squire. “And that made Henry Bird jealous?”