Nobody passed the house, the insects rasped in her ears, she thought her
forlorn childish thoughts, and it was an hour after noon. She did not
see a curtain trimmed with white balls in a window overhead pulled
cautiously to one side, and a grizzled head thrust out; but this
happened several times.
About two o'clock there was a sudden puff of cool wind on her back; she
glanced around, trembling, and there stood Cap'n Moseby in the open
door, with his great black dog at his heels. His old face was the color
of tanned leather, and full of severe furrows; his shaggy brows frowned
over sharp black eyes. He leaned upon a stout oak staff, for he had been
lamed by a British musket-ball.
"Who's this?" he asked, in a grim voice.
Mirandy arose and stood about, and courtesied. She could not find her
tongue yet.
"Hey?" said Cap'n Moseby.
"Mirandy Thayer," she answered then, in a shaking voice that had yet a
touch of defiance in it.
"Mirandy Thayer, hey? Well, what do you want here, Mirandy Thayer?"
Mirandy dropped another courtesy. "My bucket."
"Your bucket! What have I got to do with your bucket?"
"I left it out in--your berry pasture."
"Out in my berry pasture! So you have been stealing my berries, hey?
What about your bucket?"
Mirandy's little hands clutched and opened at her sides, her face was
quite pale, but she looked straight up at Cap'n Moseby.
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