“ Mr. Urquhart, indeed!” she cried. “A nice sort you are out here, you King’s Barton gentry! Why, I’ve never cared even to tell Wolf all I’ve heard Dad say about what some folks do in this dirty village.” Her voice grew louder, as her long-suppressed feelings burst forth. Wolf had fancied in his simplicity that his mother’s airy propitiations had disarmed the girl; but he underrated both Gerda’s perspicacity and her pride.

There was something else on Gerda’s mind, too, beyond her personal indignation. What actually, he wondered, were these Blacksod gossips saying? He looked at the girl with a kind of paralyzed helplessness, and again the thought struck him how neat a stroke of chance it was that Redfern’s grave should be the background of her outburst.