The man’s mouth was open, regarding him mildly. “If we had, what sent, Johnny?”
“The garden stuff--peas and beets and squashes and so on?”
The dull look lightened. “Maybe we could--and it would seem good to eat the same ones we raised, would n’t it?” He looked at him appealingly.
“We’d all like it, and it would be good for mother--to have the things fresh from home.”
“So ’t would, Johnny. So ’t would. Who’ll we get to tend ’em?” The thought puckered his forehead in anxious lines.
“There ’s Stillwell,” said John absently. He was not looking at the old man, but at his mother’s face.
It was turned to him with a little smile. “I am glad,” she said, as if he had spoken.
“Yes--it has been a long day--so much has happened.”
“I will help you to bed,” he said, thoughtfully, “and then I must go back to the office for a little while.”
She looked at him inquiringly. “Tonight?”
“Only for a little while. The special goes back at eight--I want to tell him.”
She made a swift gesture. “Don’t wait. Your father will help me.”
“I ’ll help her, Sonny. You run right along,” said the old man kindly.
“I am a little late,” said the hoy, looking at his watch. “I ’ll have to hurry. But I ’ll be back before you ’re asleep.” With a little nod he was gone.
They looked at each other across the vacant place. “I do know how you ’re goin’ to stand it,” said the old man slowly.
“I shall not mind.” She spoke with quick decision, “but it will be hard for you--leaving the garden and the place.”
“We ’ve lived here thirty year,” he said thoughtfully.
He came around and laid a clumsy hand on her shoulder. “You want I should help you, Marcia?”
“No, Caleb, I ’ll sit here a little--perhaps till the boy comes back. I like to look at the garden from here.”
The old man’s glance followed hers. “It is putty,” he said. “You see how them squashes hev come on since morning?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him in the dim light. “Seems’s if you could most see ’em grow,” said the old man with a little sigh. He took up his battered hat. “Well, I ’ll go see Stillwell. Like enough he ’ll be glad to do it.”
But when he was outside of the door, he did not turn toward Stillwell’s. He went down the garden path instead, stooping now and then to a plant or vine, patting the mold with slow fingers. At the end of the garden he dropped to his knees, feeling cautiously along the bed that skirted the high board fence.... “Coming on fine,” he said, “and hollyhocks is what she wanted most of all.” His fingers strayed among them, picking off dead leaves, straightening stems and propping them with bits of stick. While he worked he talked to himself, a kind of mumbling chant, and sometimes he lifted himself a little and looked about the garden, much as a muskrat sits upon its haunches and watches the outer world for a moment before it dives again to its home. Once he looked up to the sky and his fingers ceased their work, his face wore a passive look. Kneeling there in the half-light, his big face lifted and the fragrance of the garden rising about him, he seemed to wait for something. Then his face dropped and his fingers groped again among the plants. By-and-by he got to his feet, stamping a little to shake out the stiffness. “It ’s better for the boy,” he said humbly. “I ’ll go see Stillwell right off.”