"Yes, I know." There was the very slightest flash of anxiety in the old eyes. Then it was gone.
"I'm going up the river to find things out."
"That's what I understood. Betty is up there—too."
The quiet assurance of his mother's remark brought a fresh light into the man's eyes, and the blood surged to his cheeks.
"Yes, ma. That's it—chiefly."
"I thought so. And—I'm glad. You'll bring her back with you?"
"Yes, ma."
"Good-bye, boy." His simple assurance satisfied her. Her faith in him was the faith of a mother.
The man bent down and kissed the withered, upturned face.
She went out, and Dave turned to the things she had brought him. She had thought of everything. And the food—he smiled. She was his mother, and the food had the amplitude such as is characteristic of a mother when providing for a beloved son.