"This is a fine welcome," Alexander said. He pushed her aside, and pulled off the heavy, sodden boots.
"So you're back," said James Rutherford.
Alexander made no answer. With his hands in his pockets he stood and looked at the smouldering fire. Clara lighted the lamp. "It looks so cheerless," she complained. Her fingers moved stiffly: she wasted several matches. "Would you like anything to eat, Jim?"
"No, I'm sleepy. I'll go to bed." His eyes looked glazed. He lifted himself from his chair and laid an awkward hand on Alexander's shoulder. "I'm glad you're back," he said, and passed out. Alexander did not move until the creaking of the stairs had ceased, and his mother spoke.
"Alec, you didn't say good-night—or anything."
"If I'd said what I was thinking——" The red light in his eyes flickered as he saw how she drooped against the table. "Why are you not sitting down? Come here. How many miles have you tramped to-day? Let me have your boots. Why will you do it? Why will you do it?" He chafed her stockinged feet.
She leant forward to touch his face. "Alec, I'm sorry we weren't here when you came home. My heart was here."
"No, no!"
"Part of it, then."
"As much as that? I was thinking you'd be in the porch, with the light from the kitchen creeping round the passage corner; and there was Janet on the horse-block, like a great black bird. Couldn't you have let him run by himself for this one day?"