The youth, who had come around the corner, nodded casually. “How is mother?”
The old man got slowly to his feet, rubbing his knees a little. “All right, I guess. She was out here with me a while ago, but I took her in.—You got some flowers for her?” He glanced at the pink-and-white blossoms in the boy’s hand.
“I got them on the bank by the track—Has she had a good day?”
“Putty good, I reckon. Putty good.” He was coming down between the peas, limping a little. “They found out who’s to blame—?”
The boy was moving toward the house, but he turned back with a little gesture of silence. “She does n’t know?”
The older man looked a little guilty. “Well—yes—fact is—I told her. She kind o’ got it out o’ me,” he added in defence.
The boy smiled. “She always gets it out of you.—Never mind if it has n’t hurt her.” He turned again toward the house.
She was very quiet as he entered the room. The blinds were closed and the little light that came through the shutters made a kind of cool dusk. He crossed to the lounge and laid the flowers by her hand. The delicate fingers reached out and closed over them. “Clover blossoms,” she said softly. “I was wishing today—We used to have them in the yard-before the lawn-mower—” The fingers strayed here and there, touching them gently. “Are they crimson?”
“Guess again.” His voice was full of gentle love.
“Not crimson, no.... But they ’re not white, either—”