A look from his mother caused John to repress an inclination to ask her to tell him really why she came to them.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to insinuate——"
"You did! You did! You stood up there and told me that my little girl who loves her mother ran away from home," Mrs. Sprockett cried, irrationally. "That's what you did! You stood up there——"
"I'm sorry," interrupted John, moving from the room to avoid the outburst.
He stepped out on the porch and found Mrs. Sprockett's husband, coatless and collarless as usual, with the same weary look about his eyes and the same hopeless droop of his narrow, rounded shoulders, mounting the steps. Across the street, in the Sprockett home, the baby wailed and fretted.
"Beg pardon," began Mrs. Sprockett's husband. "I just thought——"
"Yes, she's inside," said John, anticipating the inevitable question.
Instead of moving on into the house Mrs. Sprockett's husband stood where he had stopped.
"Our Alma——" he began.