A spasm of savage conviction seized Mrs. McKinstry. But it was more
from her jealous fears of her husband's disloyalty than concern for her
daughter's transgression. Nevertheless, she said desperately, "It's a
lie. Where are your proofs?"
"Proofs?" returned Seth. "Who is it sneaks around the school-house to
have private talks with the school-master, and edges him on with Cressy
afore folks? Your husband. Who goes sneakin' off every arternoon with
that same cantin' hound of a school-master? Your daughter. Who's been
carryin' on together, and hidin' thick enough to be ridden out on a rail
together? Your daughter and the school-master. Proofs?--ask anybody. Ask
the children. Look yar--you, Johnny--come here."
He had suddenly directed his voice to a blackberry bush near the trail,
from which the curly head of Johnny Filgee had just appeared. That
home-returning infant painfully disengaged himself, his slate, his
books, and his small dinner-pail half filled with fruit as immature as
himself, and came towards them sideways.
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