"When was it?"
"Last night. He was with my mother in the kitchen. I didn't know my father had a pistol, but then, I ought to have known. We've lived with it so long, it has seemed part of life. I didn't understand how bad he was. Theresa, my father's murdered yours."
"Yes, yes. Never mind." She held very tightly to his hand. "Never mind. He wouldn't like you to be sad. Oh"—her voice quavered on the stillness, and she dropped against him—"oh, Alexander, take care of me for a little while."
Her face was against the rough fabric of his sleeve. He loosed her hand and put his arm about her, holding her steadily, and so they stood beneath the yews.
Each stirred at the same moment, and, without a word, walked on. At the house end Alexander stopped and spoke quietly.
"Janet is with my mother. She is afraid to leave her. You are to have my room. Tread softly: she may be sleeping."
In the little front-room supper was spread, and a fire was burning. Alexander pushed her gently into a low wicker chair, and knelt to unlace her boots, and when he took them off he rubbed her feet.
"Was there no straw in the cart? I told him to have plenty. Let me push you nearer to the fire."
"Alexander, can't I go and see him?"
"When you have had some food. Here's Mrs. Spencer with the coffee. No, sit still. I'll serve you."