Then she began to wonder and worry at the prolonged absence of her—Bill.
Kate had just finished removing the remains of the evening meal. Helen had curled herself up in the old rocker. She was reading through the numerous pages of a long letter, for perhaps the twentieth time. She was tired, bodily and mentally, and her pretty face looked drawn under its tanning.
Her sister watched her, moving silently about, returning the various articles to the cupboards where they belonged. Her eyes were shadowed. The old assurance seemed to have gone entirely out of her. Her whole manner was inclined to a curious air of humility, which, even now, seemed to fit her so ill.
She watched the girl turn page after page. Then she heard her draw a long sigh as she turned the last page.
Helen looked up and caught the eyes so yearningly regarding her.
“I—I feel better now,” she declared, with a pathetic little smile. “And—please—please don’t worry about me, Kate, dear. I’m tired. We’re both tired. Tired to death. But—there’s no help for it. We surely must keep going, and—and we’ve no one now to help us.” She glanced down at the letter in her lap. Then she abruptly raised her eyes, and went on quickly. “Say, Kate, I s’pose we’ll never see Nick or Pete again? Shall we always have to do the work of our little patch ourselves?” Then she smiled and something of her old lightness peeped out of her pretty eyes. “Look at me,” she cried. “I—I haven’t put on one of my nice suits since—since that day. I’m—a tramp.”
Kate’s returning smile was of the most shadowy description. She shook her head.
“Maybe we’ll get some hired men soon,” she said, quietly. Then she sighed. “I don’t know. I hope so. I guess we’ll never see Nick again. He got away—I believe—across the border. As for Pete,” she shuddered, “he was found by the police—shot dead.”
Helen sat up.