"No, sir."

"Now, I am going to tell you who stole your mother's husband away
from her. You know who your mother's husband was, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. My Pa."

"One night,--the night before you came up here to live--your Auntie
Rachel,--that is what you called her, isn't it? Well, she was not
your real aunt. She was your neighbour,--just as Mr. Collins over
there is my neighbour,--and she was your mother's friend. Well,
that night she stole your Pa from your Ma, and took him away with
her,--far, far away, and she never let him come back again. She
took him away in the night, away from your mother and you forever
and forever. She---"

"But Pa was bigger'n she was," interrupted Kenneth, frowning. "Why
didn't he kill her and get away?"

The old Squire was silent for a moment. "It is not fair for me to
put all the blame on Rachel Carter. Your father was willing to go.
He did not kill Rachel Carter. Together he and Rachel Carter killed
your mother. But Rachel Carter was more guilty than he was. She was
a woman and she stole what belonged in the sight of God to another
woman. She was a bad woman. If she had been a good woman she would
not have stolen your father away from your mother. So now you know
that your Pa did not go to the war. He went away with Rachel Carter
and left your mother to die of a broken heart. He went off into
the wilderness with that bad, evil woman. Your mother was unhappy.
She died. She is under the ground up in the graveyard, all alone.