“Mother,” said the boy, “this is the new blacksmith that I've been telling you about, and he is great guns—just pulled me out of the bottom of the Tennessee river.”
Jack laughed and said: “The little 'un ca'n't swim as well as he can shoot, ma'am.”
There was no sign of recognition between them, nothing to show they had ever seen each other before, but Jack saw her eyes grow tender at the first word he uttered, and he knew that Margaret Adams loved him then, even as she had loved him years ago.
He stayed but a short while, and James Adams never saw the silent battle that was waged in the eyes of each. How Jack Bracken devoured her with his eyes,—the comely figure, the cleanliness and sweetness of the little cottage—his painful hungry look for this kind of peace and contentment—the contentment of love.
And James noticed that his mother was greatly embarrassed, even to agitation, but he supposed it was because of his narrow escape from drowning, and it touched him even to caressing her, a thing he had never done before.
It hurt Jack—that caress. Richard Travis's boy—she would have been his but for him. He felt a terrible bitterness arising. He turned abruptly to go.
Margaret had not spoken. Then she thanked him and bade James change his clothes. As the boy went in the next room to do this, she followed Jack to the little gate and stood pale and suffering, but not able to speak.
“Good-bye,” he said, giving her his hand—“you know, Margaret, my life—why I am here, to be near you,—how I love you, have loved you.”
“And how I love you, Jack,” she said simply.
The words went through him with a fierce sweetness that shook him.