"I wish we could arrange to take her away from that brute of a
father of hers, and keep her here," said the Mistress. "It's
horrible to think of such a helpless wisp of a baby being beaten
and made to work, day and night. And then she and Laddie love
each other so. They--"
"What can we do?" asked the Master, hopelessly. "I've spoken to
the village authorities about it. But it seems the law can't
interfere; unless brutal cruelty can be proved or unless the
parents are unfit to bring up the child."
"Brutal cruelty?" echoed the Mistress. "What could be more brutal
than the way he beats her? Why, last week there was a bruise on
her arm as big--"
"What can we prove? He has a legal right to punish her. If we got
them up in court, he'd frighten her into swearing she hurt her
arm on a fence picket and that he never harms her. No, there's no
sort of cure for the rotten state of affairs."
But the Master was mistaken. There was a very good cure indeed
for it. And that cure was being applied at the moment he denied
its existence.
Sonya had disappeared from view over the crest of the lawn: Down
into the orchard she went, Lad at her side; to where Ruloff was
waiting for her to lug another full basket back to the house.
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