Just then Harriet and her friends passed, and Westerfelt saw the girl looking inquiringly at Mrs. Dawson.  He heard the old woman grunt contemptuously, and saw her toss her head and fiercely eye Harriet from head to foot as she went down the aisle.

Westerfelt shuddered.  He wondered if the old woman could possibly know of Harriet’s past connection with Wambush and her girlish infatuation.  He turned away with Luke to get the basket.  Bradley was saying something about a suitable place to spread the lunch, but Westerfelt did not listen.  He could think of nothing but the strange, defiant look in Mrs. Dawson’s eyes as they fell on the girl he loved.

Chapter XIX

At luncheon Westerfelt sat next to Mrs. Bradley and could not see Mrs. Dawson, who was on the other side of her.  Among the trees on his right, he had a good view of Harriet Floyd’s party.  They all seemed exasperatingly merry.  Bates was making himself boyishly conspicuous, running after water, preparing lemonade, and passing it round to the others, with his silk hat poised on the back part of his head.  Mrs. Bradley and her friends remained seated for some time after they had finished eating, and Westerfelt saw the young men in Harriet’s party rise, leaving the girls to put the remains of the lunch into the baskets.  Hyram and Frank strolled off together, and Bates, after a moment’s hesitation, came straight over to Westerfelt.

“I want to talk to you, if you are through,” he said, alternately pulling at a soiled kid glove on his hand and twisting his stubby mustache.

Westerfelt rose, conscious that Mrs. Dawson was eying him, and walked down a little road through the pines.  Neither spoke till they were out of sight of the crowd.  Then Bates stopped suddenly and faced his companion.  He put his foot on a fallen log, and cleared his throat.  He looked up at the sky and slowly caressed his chin with his fingers, as Westerfelt had once seen him do in making a speech before the justice of the peace.

“We ain’t well acquainted, Westerfelt,” he began, stroking his chin downward and letting his lips meet with a clucking sound, also another professional habit; “but, you’d find, ef you knew me better, that I never beat the devil round the stump, as the feller said, an’ I’m above board.”  He paused for a moment; then he kicked a rotten spot on the log with the broad heel of his brogan till it crumbled into dust.  “I’ve got some’n to say to you of a sort o’ confidential nature, an’ ef you’ll let me, I may ask you a point-blank question.”

“Fire away,” said Westerfelt, wonderingly.