“Why, there in the water, at the very last, when he kep' goin' down, I liked him. Yes, I must have. But all along, I felt more like sorry for him. He seemed so miser'ble, all the time, and so--well--scared.” “Yes.” She had got the boy's hand, and without turning her body with her face she held his hand in hers closely under her arm. “Joey, I told you he was a wicked man. I can't tell you any different now. But I'm glad you was sorry for him. I am sorry too. Joey--he was your father.” She pressed his hand harder. “Goodness!” he said, but he did not suffer himself to say more. “He went away and left me when you was a little baby, and he never come back till he come back here. I never had any word from him. For all I could tell he was dead. I never wanted him to be dead,” she defended herself to herself in something above the intelligence of the boy. “I married Laban, who's been more of a father to you than what _he_ was.” “Oh, _yes_, mother!” “When your _real_ father come here, I made your _true_ father go away.” Now she turned and faced her son, keeping his hand tighter in hers. “Joey, I want to have you go and tell him to come back.” “Right away, Mother?” “Why, yes?” she said with question in her answer. “I thought maybe you'd let me see Benny, first,” he suggested a little wistfully. She almost laughed. “You dear boy! Go and see Benny on your way. Take him with you, if his father will let him go. You're both such great travelers. Your father's at the Wilkinses' yit, I reckon; they hain't finished with their cider, I don't believe. Go, now!” The boy had been poising as if on winged feet, and now he flew. He came back to say at the door, “I don't believe I'll want any breakfast, mother; we had such a late supper.” It was a thoughtful suggestion, and she said “No,” but before her answer came he had flown again. The baby woke, and she cooed to it, and she went about the one room of the little cabin trying to put it more in order than before. Some pieces of the moss in the chinking of the round logs near the chimney seemed loose, and she packed them tighter. As she worked she sang. She sang a hymn, but it was a hymn of thanksgiving. The doorway darkened, and she turned to see the figure of her brother black in the light. “I see, you've heard the news,” he said grimly. “I was afraid I might find you making a show of mourning. _I_ don't pretend to any. I haven't had such a load off me since that rascal first come back.” She answered resentfully, “What makes _you_ so glad, David? He didn't come back to make _you_ drive _your_ husband away!”