“They say what is not true.”
“You were married to my mother, then?”
He waited too long. She divined, clear though his answer was, that he had evaded, or was quibbling in some way.
“You are the daughter of a truly married husband and wife, as truly married as were ever any pair.”
And though she knew he had turned her question, she saw that he must have done it for some great reason of his own, and, even in her grief, she would not pain him by asking another. She could feel that he suffered as she did, and he seemed, moreover, to be pitifully and strangely frightened.
When Follett came riding back that evening he saw that Prudence had been troubled. The candle-light showed sadness in her dark eyes and in the weighted corners of her mouth. He was moved to take her in his arms and soothe her as he had seen mothers do with sorry little children. But instead of this he questioned her father sharply when their corn-husk mattresses had been put before either side of the fireplace for the night. The little man told him frankly the cause of her grief. There was something compelling in the other’s way of asking questions. When the thing had been made plain, Follett looked at him indignantly.
“Do you mean to say you let her go on thinking that about herself?”
“I told her that her father and mother had been rightly married.”
“Didn’t she think you were fooling her in some way?”
“I—I can’t be sure—”