Emily said no more, but she noticed that her cousin was wearing the two-dollar ring, the wanderer's “farewell” gift, so she judged that brother Jed would not be worked beyond the bounds of moderation.
Left alone in the dining-room—Georgie had returned to the living-room and his presents—the two women looked at each other. Neither had eaten a breakfast worth mentioning and the same thought was in the mind of each.
“Auntie,” whispered Emily, voicing that thought, “don't you think we ought to go up and—and see if he is—all right.”
Thankful nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose we had. He's alive, I know that much, for I had Imogene knock on his door just now and he answered. But I guess maybe we'd better—”
She did not finish the sentence for at that moment the subject of the conversation entered the room. It was Solomon Cobb who entered, but, except for his clothes, he was a changed man. His truculent arrogance was gone, he came in slowly and almost as if he were walking in his sleep. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair had not been combed, and the face between the thin bunches of whiskers was white and drawn. He did not speak to either Emily or Thankful, but, dragging one foot after the other, crossed the room and sat down in a chair by the window.
Thankful spoke to him.
“Are you sick, Solomon?” she asked.
Mr. Cobb shook his head.
“Eh?” he grunted. “No, no, I ain't sick. I guess I ain't; I don't know.”
“Breakfast is all ready, Mr. Cobb,” suggested Emily.