"An' you're him! _you_--an' doin' this way, after the way you've
done--an' him sick--an' me talkin' to ye--an'--an'--everything!"
The two torrents of hate and gratitude had met, and were whirling her
about wildly.
The young man pushed his hat back on his head, and stared at her in
sturdy, unflinching amazement.
"My dear young lady, what on earth do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"I mean that I didn't know that you was _him_--the man that sold my
father this place, an' lied to him about the vineyard--told him they was
raisin-grapes, an' they wasn't--an' you knowed he was a temp'rance man,
a prohibitionist. An' him tryin' to grub 'em out, an' gettin' sick--an'
bein' so patient, an' never hurtin' nobody--" she ended in a wild,
angry sob that seemed to swallow up her voice.
"Miss Starkweather," said the young fellow steadily, "I certainly did
sell this place to your father, and if I told him anything about the
vineyard I most certainly told him they were raisin-grapes; and upon my
soul I thought they _were_. Aren't they?"
"No," sobbed Idy, "they ain't; they're wine-grapes! He was grubbin' 'em
out to-day. That's what hurt 'im--I'm afraid he'll die!"
"You mustn't be afraid of that. Dr. Patterson says he will get better.
But we must see that he doesn't do any more grubbing. When Slater gave
me this for sale," he went on, as if he were reflecting aloud, "he said
there were ten acres of vineyard. I can't swear that he told me what the
vines were, or that I asked him. But it never occurred to me that any
man--even an Englishman--would plant ten acres of wine-grapes when there
wasn't a winery within fifty miles of him."