They had reached the turn where the path led up the slope from the foot of the hill.
“Do not go back to the house,” he said; “let us sit down here a little while in the shade. I feel strangely oppressed, and the four walls of a room would suffocate me.”
Apparently, he had uttered the last sentence involuntarily, as he took off his hat, and passed his hand several times across his forehead, for, catching his breath quickly, he added, as if by way of an apology,—
“It is so much pleasanter in the open air, and I am less fortunate than you. I seldom have a chance to enjoy the country.”
He had evidently spoken truly, however, when he said he felt strangely oppressed, for his eyes wandered up the valley, far off to the remote Paint Ridge, yet he did not see the glittering Scioto, or how Summer sat enthroned in royal pomp upon the hills.
There was a thoughtful, almost anxious expression on his face. Presently he added, in a tone of voice as if they might have been discussing the subject at the moment, and which showed his mind was still occupied wholly by the incident at the foundry,—
“Miss Helen, had you ever seen that man before?”
“What man?” she inquired. “The workman, you mean?”
“Yes, the old moulder.”
“No. I have often heard them speak of him. I rarely go to the foundry; it is gloomy, and the hands are so rough father does not like to have me come in contact with them in any way, so I do not know one from another. I did not recollect at first, but I remember now hearing him say that old Simlin was queer, that he was a miser, and that he lived all alone on the Spring Hill. But I am sure father did not know he was so feeble, or how he was losing his mind. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. It must be dreadfully sad, ignorant though he is, to grow old and have not a soul on the earth to care for him.”