His brother was a man of great character. He could
see that now. His deep-set, gray eyes and rugged face showed at
thirty a man of great natural ability. He had more of the Scotch in
his face than Howard, and he looked much older.
He was dressed, like the old man and the boy, in a checked shirt
without vest. His suspenders, once gay-colored, had given most of
their color to his shirt, and had marked irregular broad bands of
pink and brown and green over his shoulders. His hair was
uncombed, merely pushed away from his face. He wore a
mustache only, though his face was covered with a week's growth
of beard. His face was rather gaunt and was brown as leather.
Howard could not eat much. He was disturbed by his mother's
strange silence and oppression, and sickened by the long-drawn
gasps with. which the old man ate his bread and milk, and by the
way the boy ate. He had his knife gripped tightly in his fist,
knuckles up, and was scooping honey upon his bread.
The baby, having ceased to be afraid, was curious, gazing silently
at the stranger.
"Hello, little one! Come and see your uncle. Eh? 'Course 'e will,"
cooed Howard in the attempt to escape the depressing atmosphere.
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