When she came back she found him sitting by the stove, his gaze fixed gloomily on its black surface, his body bent forward and his great hands swung loosely before him.
She stirred the fire a little and pushed back the kettle on the stove. “We ’re no needing it, the night,” she said with happy face.
But there was no happiness in the old face across the stove.
“What is it, Hugh?” She was looking at him with keen, gentle eyes that searched his soul.
“Sim Tetlow,” he said briefly.
Her hand dropped from the kettle—“Ye ’ve seen him, the night!”
“He had the bairn,” said Hugh. “He was holding it—in his arms—like his own.” He looked up to her—bitter hatred in the red-rimmed eyes.
But she came close to him, her soft dress making no sound. “He cared for the bairn!” It was half a question—a little cry of disbelief and longing—“He cared for the bairn!”
“He were holding her,” said Hugh gruffly—“Same as you—or me.” He lifted his hand with a swift gesture—“Curse—”
She caught the hand, holding it to her bosom, forcing it there—“No—Hugh—no,” she breathed the words with little gasps—“Ye ’ll no curse—we maun—”