"Well, we felt as if you probably had all you could do to take care
of yourself."
"Are you married, Howard?"
"No, Mother; and there ain't any excuse for me-not a bit," he said,
dropping back into her colloquialisms."I'm ashamed when I think
of how long it's been since I saw you. I could have come."
"It don't matter now," she interrupted gently. "It's the way things
go. Our boys grow up and leave us."
"Well, come in to supper," said Grant's ungracious voice from the
doorway. "Come, Mother."
Mrs. McLane moved with difficulty. Howard sprang to her aid, and
leaning on his arm she went through the little sitting room, which
was unlighted, out into the kitchen, where the supper table stood
near the cookstove.
"How, this is my wife," said Grant in a cold, peculiar tone.
Howard bowed toward a remarkably handsome young woman, on
whose forehead was a scowl, which did not change as she looked
at him and the old lady.
"Set down, anywhere," was the young woman's cordial invitation.
Howard sat down next to his mother, and facing the wife, who had
a small, fretful child in her arms. At Howard's left was the old
man, Lewis. The supper was spread upon a gay-colored oilcloth,
and consisted of a pan of milk, set in the midst, with bowls at each
plate.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103