"And I don't blame you. I told
mother yesterday that I thought you might suspect--"
"Your mother knows then?"
"Yes, of course," raising her eyes in surprise.
For a moment they were silent. Westerfelt leaned against the
mantel-piece; he had never felt such utter despair. It was like being
slowly tortured to death to hear her speaking so frankly of the thing
which he had never been able to contemplate with calmness.
"So you see now that I'd better go back to the stable, don't you?" he
asked, gloomily.
"I suppose so," she said. "I suppose you mean that--" but she was
unable to formulate what lay in her confused mind. Besides, Luke
Bradley was coming in. They heard his heavy tread on the veranda.
"Well, come on, John, ef you are ready," he called out. "That blamed
nag o' mine won't stand still a minute."
When Westerfelt had been driven away, and Harriet had watched him out
of sight down the road, she came back to the fire and sat down in the
chair Westerfelt had used during his convalescence. She kept her eyes
fixed on the coals till her mother entered the room.
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