“I wouldn’t say John was cruel,” the man urged wistfully.
“He’s your son,” she said, the old bitterness in her voice.
And Evered nodded, as though in confession. He looked in the direction Darrin had taken.
“I wonder what he’s back for,” he said half to himself.
Ruth did not answer, and after a little she went back into the kitchen. She heard Evered working with his ax for a while, splitting up wood for the stove; and presently he brought in an armful and dumped it in the woodbox. It was a thing he had done before, though John was accustomed to carry her wood for her. As he dropped the wood now Evered looked toward her, as though to make sure she had seen; he smiled in a pleading, broken way. She thanked him, a certain sympathy in her voice in spite of herself. The man was so broken; he had grown so old in so short a time.
Darrin, bound toward his old camping ground at the spring, heard John’s ax in the birch growth at his left, but he did not turn aside. There was a new purpose in the man; his old pleasantly amiable demeanor had altered; his eyes were steady and hard. He reached the spring and disposed his goods, with a packet of provisions which he had brought from the village.
A little later he went back up the hill to get milk and eggs from the farm. It chanced that he found Evered in the barnyard; and Evered saw him coming, and watched him approach. They came face to face at the bars, and when Darrin had passed through he stood still, eying the other man and waiting for Evered to speak. There was a steady scrutiny in Evered’s eyes, a questioning; Darrin met this questioning glance with one that told nothing. His lips set a little grimly.
Evered asked at last, “You say you came back for more pictures?”
“Yes.”
“I’m wondering if you’ll get what you come for.”