The family turned to obey, exhibiting a variety of expressions, from fright to the deepest woe, but Moira observed that there was one who had not shared the general grief--the short, mature, straw-haired girl of sixteen or seventeen, whose face bore a stolid, disdainful look. She followed toward the kitchen after Ellen and one of the small children, but as she reached the porch she turned and gazed at Rob Blaydon, fascinated by the revolver in his hand. In the weird light, which cast a romantic glow over her figure and uncouth clothing, Moira thought the girl had a touch of beauty, fresh and coarse and natural as earth. “Poor Hermann,” she said, “he’s a rustic Pierrot, Hal.” Just as they topped the ridge they heard the harsh double-fire of Rob Blaydon’s revolver. She was glad to see the lights of Thornhill. “Well,” said Hal, “Rob had a good hunch to-night--even if it was fun for him. Just the sort of thing he’d love. There’s the boy who needed to go to France. As it is he’ll get over that raw streak very slowly.” “Rob’s a dear,” she broke in, earnestly. “I’m not one of those who worry about him. He’s a good animal--without a shred of theory in him. I let him get me most beautifully pickled twice last Fall.” “The devil you did!” exclaimed Hal. “Why not? He knows everybody everywhere and they like him. And he drives like a wild man--when he’s had a few. Now you wouldn’t be such a good fellow, would you, Hal? You’d be cautious and look after my morals, and count my drinks and take me home early.” “Yes, I’m afraid I would,” he said. “And I suppose you wouldn’t like it.” XII It was Ellen’s night off and after the dispatching of the horse, she stayed with Mrs. Dietz to cheer her up and help put the two youngest children to bed. She had been so long a constant visitor and benefactor that they had ceased to regard her as an emissary from the big house and talked of their troubles freely before her. The five of them sat about the lamp in the comfortless but warm living room of the farmhouse, listening to a monologue by Hermann Dietz on the virtues of the dead horse. Although he had been born within a hundred feet of that spot, and his father had come to America as a boy, Dietz’ accent, like many of his kind bred to the farms thereabouts, still bore traces of the German. They were a squatter-like tribe, never prosperous. “Poor old Molly, she was not so old, yet, but it seemed like we had had her always, Mrs. Williams. She did her share, Molly.” “What did Mr. Robert do to Molly?” asked the boy, plaintively. “Did he shoot her? Can I go see?” “No, no, you wait until morning. Don’t you mind about Molly. She was sufferin’ terrible, and she’s better where she is. But we’ll miss her. Yes, Johnnie, when you was a little bit of a feller, two, three years old, Poppa used to put you on Molly’s back and hold you, and you’d laugh and holler and she’d walk so easy just as if she knew you was a baby.”