“Zeb Fuller, what did you mean by laying that to Mr. Brayton?”
“I didn’t do anything of the kind,” replied Zeb; “it was Dorothy.”
“But you let her think so.”
“I?” exclaimed Zeb. “I never touched her. Euphemia, George is as innocent of that bell business as you or I.”
Effie burst out into a merry peal of laughter over Zeb’s response and the manner of it, but there were other curious questioners drawing near, and she hurried away.
Away from that spot, indeed, but her father’s house did not come to Effie’s mind just then, as the pleasantest place of refuge in the world, and, instead of seeking that shelter, she turned her footsteps towards Mrs. Wood’s for a bit of a chat with Sibyl.
A very excellent choice, but why should Effie Dryer have blushed so deeply, when Sibyl’s mother met her in the hall and put her soft arms around her and gave her such a sweet and motherly kiss?
So very different was that kiss from any that Effie had received from her father’s third wife.