April was waiting at the path, and he walked on home beside them. Tall, solid as a tree, rugged, tough-sinewed, double-jointed, yet the cruel look in his deep-sunk eyes that blazed out when they looked at Sherry, had given way to something else. They glowed bright as he turned back and looked across the rice-fields toward Sandy Island, and said gently:
“Sandy Island is way back behind de clouds to-day.” His anger with Sherry had passed.
His voice sounded unsteady, his features were haggard and ashy.
Big Sue looked at him, then at Breeze. “You break de news to Breeze, April. I ain’ got de heart.”
April shook his head. “Me neither.”
Big Sue’s small eyes blinked. “Son,” she hesitated strangely, and laid a hot fat hand gently on his shoulder, “you t’ink you got a mammy, enty?”
Of course Breeze thought so. He was so sure of it. What on earth was Big Sue aiming at?
“No, son.” She shook her head slowly. “You ain’ got none. You’ mammy went out on de tide befo’ day dis mawnin’.”
What did Big Sue mean? Breeze felt confused. Where had his mother gone on that before-day-tide? He didn’t understand what Big Sue was talking about.
Marsh-hens cackled gaily out in the rice-fields. A crane croaked. A fish-hawk circled high, then halted to poise himself for a swoop.