“What were those signs I saw on the trees as I came?”
“Just stalking notes; we study and photograph the wild life.”
There was a moment’s pause. “It is certainly nice to encourage a feeling of friendship for the forest life,” she conceded.
“It is not so much a feeling of friendship as of kinship, Mrs. Bennett.”
She turned about and looked sharply at one of the scouts who stood near by. “You are not the Slade boy?” she said.
“Yes-mam.”
“I hardly knew you.”
Mrs. Bennett’s housewifely instincts would not permit her to give any sign of surrender until she had proof of the cooking. But away down in her mother’s heart was an uncomfortable feeling which she could not overcome; a feeling of disappointment and dissatisfaction with her own son. She had too much pride to show it, but Connover felt in some vague way that she was not well pleased. She was a mother of high ideals and she was not undiscerning. Aside from her son’s disobedience, which had been a shock to her, what an inglorious afternoon had been his! It seemed that every one about her had done something worthy that afternoon except her own son. There lay his victim, the O’Connor boy, bearing his suffering in silence. She noticed that the boys seemed somehow to make allowance for Connover, and it touched her pride.
While the last few touches for this special meal were preparing, she and Mr. Ellsworth wandered a little way out of camp. He spoke kindly, almost indulgently, she thought, but as one who knew his business and was qualified to speak. He had stormed Mrs. Bennett’s fortress too many times to mince matters now.
“I don’t know that you’re really to blame, Mrs. Bennett—except indirectly.”