“How about that hardwood floor downstairs?—an' the fireplace?” Billy inquired.
“All, all,” she replied proudly. “And half the furniture. That cedar desk there, the table—with his own hands.”
“They are such gentle hands,” Saxon was moved to say.
Mrs. Hale looked at her quickly, her vivid face alive with a grateful light.
“They are gentle, the gentlest hands I have ever known,” she said softly. “And you are a dear to have noticed it, for you only saw them yesterday in passing.”
“I couldn't help it,” Saxon said simply.
Her gaze slipped past Mrs. Hale, attracted by the wall beyond, which was done in a bewitching honeycomb pattern dotted with golden bees. The walls were hung with a few, a very few, framed pictures.
“They are all of people,” Saxon said, remembering the beautiful paintings in Mark Hall's bungalow.
“My windows frame my landscape paintings,” Mrs. Hale answered, pointing out of doors. “Inside I want only the faces of my dear ones whom I cannot have with me always. Some of them are dreadful rovers.”
“Oh!” Saxon was on her feet and looking at a photograph. “You know Clara Hastings!”