“Pshaw, now! That’s too bad!”
“Why is it too bad?”
The expression of trouble deepened on the old hostler’s face.
“It’s been quite a spell since Nat writ poetry. His dad sort o’ discouraged it. Nat give it up.”
“He’s a young man, then?” Why did the girl’s heart leap?
“Let’s see, Nat was ten or so when he come to Paris from over Foxboro way. That was in ninety-nine. Now it’s nineteen-fifteen. That’d make Natie ’bout twenty-six at present, wouldn’t it?—yaas, twenty-six!”
“He’s still living here, then?”
“Yaas—he’s still livin’ here. Just now, we’re sort o’ sorry to say, he’s livin’ in jail.”
“In—jail!”
It was a diaphragm blow. Madelaine could hear, see, feel, but she could not move. “Why is he in jail?” she asked faintly.