“What 'd he come for?”—the sick woman turned to Cynthia.
“You'd better tell her,” said the girl, coldly, to Jeff. “She won't be satisfied till you do. She'll keep coming back to it.”
“Well, mother,” said Jeff, still with something of his hardy amusement, “I hadn't been acting just right, and I thought I'd better tell Cynthy.”
“You better let the child alone. If I ever catch you teasin' them children again, I'll make Jackson shoot Fox.”
“All right, mother,” said Jeff.
She moved herself restively in bed. “What's this,” she demanded of her son, “that Whitwell's tellin' about you and Cynthy breakin' it off?”
“Well, there was talk of that,” said Jeff, passing his hand over his lips to keep back the smile that was stealing to them.
“Who done it?”
Cynthia kept her eyes on Jeff, who dropped his to his mother's face. “Cynthy did it; but I guess I gave her good enough reason.”
“About that hussy in Boston? She was full more to blame than what you was. I don't see what Cynthy wanted to do it for on her account.”