“Billy!” he said, hoarsely, clutching the wretched young fellow by the coat-collar, half to raise him, half in instinctive anger.
Returning intelligence struggled with the look of maudlin pathos on Billy’s white face. The shock of the sight of his brother sobered him. He suffered himself to be lifted to his feet, then he took his crutch and moved forward, refusing further help.
“I kin walk,” he said, sullenly.
The tone and accent grated on Matt’s ear. But a pang of self-reproach mixed with his wrath and disgust. It was his part to have looked after Billy better.
“I didn’t expect we should meet like this, Billy,” he said, softly.
“You should hev come sooner,” Billy retorted, “ ‘stead of gaddin’ about all the world over enjoyin’ yourself, and never comin’ nigh us, not even when you were tourin’ in the Province with your portraits an’ your photographers.”
“I never was near enough, and I always had to move on,” he explained, gently, as he flicked the dust of the road off Billy’s coat.
“Never mind my clothes; they won’t spoil, they’re not so fine as yours. If you’re ’shamed to walk with me—”
“Don’t talk like that, Billy. I’m only glad to see how well you can walk.”
The brothers passed defiantly through the straggling remnants of the juvenile crowd.