"Why, come to think, I guess I did," said her father, grinning.
"It is your right," said his daughter, quietly; "the Brier Brook swales were yours."
"Before young Gordon's pa swindled me out o' them," observed Jocelyn, tearing off more bread. "And," he added, "even old Gordon never dared post his land in them days. If he had he'd been tarred 'n' feathered."
His daughter looked grave, then a smile touched her eyes, and she said: "I hear, daddy, that young Gordon gives you cattle and seeds and ploughs."
Jocelyn wheeled around like a flash. "Who told you that?" he demanded, sharply.
The incredulous smile in her eyes died out. She stared at him blankly.
"Why, of course it wasn't true," she said.
"Murphy told me," she stammered. "Of course it is a lie! of course he lied, father! I told him he lied--"
With horror in her eyes she stared at her father, but Jocelyn sat sullenly brooding over his coffee-cup and tearing bit after bit from the crust in his fist.
"Has young Gordon ever said that to you?" he demanded, at length.
"I have never spoken to him in all my life," answered the girl, with a dry sob. "If I had known that he gave things to--to--us--I should have died--"
Jocelyn's eyes were averted. "How dare he!" she went on, trembling. "We are not beggars! If we have nothing, it is his father's shame--and his shame! Oh, father, father! I never thought--I never for one instant thought--"
Then he rose and laid a heavy hand on the table. "I took his cows and his ploughs and his seed. What of it? He owes me more! I took them for your sake--to try to find a living in this bit of flint and sand--for you. Birds are scarce. They've passed a law against market-shooting. Every barrel of birds I send out may mean prison. I've lived my life as a market-hunter; I ain't fitted for farming. But you were growing, and you need schooling, and between the game-warden and young Gordon I couldn't keep you decent--so I took his damned cattle and I dug in the ground. What of it!" he ended, violently. And, as she did not speak, he gave voice to the sullen rage within him--"I took his cattle and his ploughs as I take his birds. They ain't his to give; they're mine to take--the birds are. I guess when God set the first hen partridge on her nest in Sagamore woods he wasn't thinking particularly about breeding them for young Gordon!"