"What kept thee all day, Andrew?" catching the shaft. "Was summat wrong?
One ill, maybe?"--her lips parched and stiff.
"What ails ye, Jane?"--holding out his hand, as was their custom when
they met. "No. No one ailin'; only near baked with th' heat. I was wi'
old Joe,"--lowering his voice. "He took me home,--to his hole, that is;
I stayed there, ye see. Well, God help us all! Come up, Jerry! D' ye
smell yer oats? Eh! the basket ye've got? No, he'd touch none of it.
It's not victual he's livin' on, this day. I wish 'n this matter was
done with."
He drove on slowly: something had sobered the Will-o'-the-wisp in Andy's
brain, and all that was manly in him looked out, solemn and pitying. The
woman was standing by the barn-door when he reached it, watching his
lips for a stray word as a dog might, but not speaking. He unhitched the
horse, put him in his stall, and pushed the wagon under cover,--then
stopped, looking at her uncertainly.
"I--I don't like to talk of this, I hardly know why. But I'm goin' to
stay with him to-morrow,--till th' trial's done with."
"Yes, Andrew."
"I wish 'n he hed a friend," he said, after a pause, breaking off bits
of the sunken wall.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143