Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. “Better state of mind,” she gasped.
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