He was dead. And what was death–– And why? Why?
Who had ordered this? And why?
And still they came with that set, borrowed phrase––the only thing they could think to say––upon their lips.
Out in Tom Lansing’s workshop on the horse-barn floor, Jacque Lafitte, the wright, was nailing soft pine boards together.
Ruth could not stand it. Why could they not leave Daddy Tom to her? She wanted to ask him things. She knew that she could make him understand and answer.
She slipped away from the couch and out of the house. At the corner of the house her dog joined her and together they circled away from the horse-barn and up the slope of the hill to where her father had been working yesterday.
She found her father’s cap where it had been left in her fright of yesterday, and sat down 27 fondling it in her hands. The dog came and slid his nose along her dress until he managed to snuggle into the cap between her hands.
So Jeffrey Whiting found her when he came following her with her coat and hood.
“You better put these on, Ruth,” he said, as he dropped the coat across her shoulder. “It’s too cold here.”
The girl drew the coat around her obediently, but did not look up at him. She was grateful for his thought of her, but she was not ready to speak to any one.