"Daid," was his mother's laconic reply.
"When did he die?"
Clem Rawlins answered in a deep, drawling voice:
"He failed tol'able fast-like after ye left, Newt. He had the weak treemers, an' died erbout cawn-plantin' time a-follerin' of yore goin' down below."
The boy said nothing. He sat mutely scowling into the fire.
A constrained silence fell on the gathering, which was at last broken by the boy's mother in a tone of dubious embarrassment.
"With yore old gran-pap on my hands, Newt, an' yore pap daid an' Little Luk kind of puny-like, I couldn't hardly git along withouten some man on the place an' so—" She paused again, then added with a note half-apology, half-defiance: "An' so I married Clem. I was plumb driv ter hit."
She knew that the boy had never liked his kinsman, Clem Rawlins, but now Newt sat with his brow drawn and his gaze fixed on the embers, making no response. Clem waited stolidly, puffing at his pipe, though he, too, would be glad when the moment of explanation was ended. At last, the boy dismissed the topic with the curt comment:
"I reckon thet's yore business."
After a while, he rose and went to the corner of the room where once his few belongings had been kept. He evidently failed to find that for which he sought, for he came back to the fire and demanded: