Captures

In parishes with scattered farms and no real village, gossip has not quite its proper wings; and the first intimation Steer had that his niece was being slighted came from Bowden himself. Steer was wont to drive the seven miles to market in a small spring cart filled with produce on the journey in, and with groceries on the journey out, holding his east-wind face, fixing his eyes on the ears of his mare. His niece sometimes sat beside him—one of those girls whose china is a little too thin for farm life. She was educated, and played the piano. Steer was proud of her in spite of his low opinion of her father, who had died of consumption and left Steer’s sister in poor circumstances. Molly Winch’s face, indeed, had refinement; it coloured easily a faint rose pink, was pointed in the chin, had a slightly tip-tilted nose, and pretty truthful eyes—a nice face.

Steer’s mare usually did the seven miles in just under forty minutes, and he was proud of her, especially when she overhauled Bowden’s mare. The two spring carts travelled abreast of each other just long enough for these words to be exchanged:

“Mornin’! Mornin’, Miss Molly, ’aven’t seen yu lately; thought yu were visitin’!”

“Glad to see yu lukin’ up s’well. Reckon Ned’s tu busy elsewhere just now.”

It was then that Steer’s mare drew well ahead.

‘My old mare’s worth two of his,’ he thought.

Bowden’s cart was distant dust before he turned to his niece and said: