The master’s nature, as I have hinted before, had, like most sensitive organizations, a selfish basis.  The brutal taunt thrown out by his late adversary still rankled in his heart.  It was possible, he thought, that such a construction might be put upon his affection for the child, which at best was foolish and Quixotic.  Besides, had she not voluntarily abnegated his authority and affection?  And what had everybody else said about her?  Why should he alone combat the opinion of all, and be at last obliged tacitly to confess the truth of all they predicted?  And he had been a participant in a low barroom fight with a common boor, and risked his life, to prove what?  What had he proved?  Nothing?  What would the people say?  What would his friends say?  What would McSnagley say?

In his self-accusation the last person he should have wished to meet was Mliss.  He entered the door, and going up to his desk, told the child, in a few cold words, that he was busy, and wished to be alone.  As she rose he took her vacant seat, and, sitting down, buried his head in his hands.  When he looked up again she was still standing there.  She was looking at his face with an anxious expression.

“Did you kill him?” she asked.

“No!” said the master.

“That’s what I gave you the knife for!” said the child, quickly.

“Gave me the knife?” repeated the master, in bewilderment.

“Yes, gave you the knife.  I was there under the bar.  Saw you hit him.  Saw you both fall.  He dropped his old knife.  I gave it to you.  Why didn’t you stick him?” said Mliss rapidly, with an expressive twinkle of the black eyes and a gesture of the little red hand.

The master could only look his astonishment.

“Yes,” said Mliss.  “If you’d asked me, I’d told you I was off with the play-actors.  Why was I off with the play-actors?  Because you wouldn’t tell me you was going away.  I knew it.  I heard you tell the Doctor so.  I wasn’t a goin’ to stay here alone with those Morphers.  I’d rather die first.”

With a dramatic gesture which was perfectly consistent with her character, she drew from her bosom a few limp green leaves, and, holding them out at arm’s length, said in her quick vivid way, and in the queer pronunciation of her old life, which she fell into when unduly excited: 

“That’s the poison plant you said would kill me.  I’ll go with the play-actors, or I’ll eat this and die here.  I don’t care which.  I won’t stay here, where they hate and despise me!  Neither would you let me, if you didn’t hate and despise me too!”

The passionate little breast heaved, and two big tears peeped over the edge of Mliss’s eyelids, but she whisked them away with the corner of her apron as if they had been wasps.

“If you lock me up in jail,” said Mliss, fiercely, “to keep me from the play-actors, I’ll poison myself.  Father killed himself—­why shouldn’t I?  You said a mouthful of that root would kill me, and I always carry it here,” and she struck her breast with her clenched fist.