He played on, forgetful of everybody, his long beard sweeping the
violin, his toilworn hands marvelously obedient to his will.
At last he stopped, looked up with a faint, deprecating smile, and
said with a sigh:
"Well, folkses, time to go home."
The going was quiet. Not much laughing. Howard stood at the
door and said good night to them all, his heart very tender.
"Come and see us," they said.
"I will," he replied cordially. "I'll try and get around to see
everybody, and talk over old times, before I go back."
After the wagons had driven out of the yard, Howard turned and
put his arm about his mother's neck.
"Tired?"
"A little."
"Well, now, good night. I'm going for a little stroll." His brain was
too active to sleep. He kissed his mother good night and went out
into the road, his hat in his hand, the cool, moist wind on his hair.
It was very dark, the stars being partly hidden by a thin vapor. On
each side the hills rose, every line familiar as the face of an old
friend. A whippoorwill called occasionally from the hillside, and
the spasmodic jangle of a bell now and then told of some cow's
battle with the mosquitoes.
As he walked, he pondered upon the tragedy he had rediscovered
in these people's lives.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142