“Very sad, indeed. We can’t always tell what’s behind these things, but we try to think they happen for a purpose.”
In Mauney’s breast something tightened at these words. Dim recollections of his mother’s faded face, so thin, but so ineffably sweet, as she closed her eyes in their interminable rest, made him wonder if her going had not been better than staying—staying with the man who had looked, dry-eyed, upon her dead face! Staying to share the unhappiness of her younger son! A wave of joy thrilled him. For one thing he would remain for ever glad—that his mother was dead, safely dead—out of his father’s reach!
He did not know how long he had stood by the window, but he presently heard the kitchen door open.
“That’s one of Tom Sunderland’s livery horses, ain’t it, Mr. Tough?”
“Yes, and he’s very slow and lazy. As a matter of fact I wanted to mention horses to you.”
“You ain’t got a horse o’ yer own, then?”
“Not yet. You might know perhaps where I could get a reliable pony, quiet enough for Mrs. Tough?”
“Now, Mr. Tough, maybe I might. I suppose you want a purty good piece o’ horse flesh?”
“Well, yes, I do.”
“Wife a horse fancier, Mr. Tough?”