"Harriett would be all right," muttered Ted, "if let alone. Lots of people would be all right if other people didn't keep nagging at them about what they ought to be."
Deane gave him a quick, queer look. "You're right there, my son," he laughed shortly.
There was a moment's intimate pause. There seemed not a sound on the whole street save the subdued chug-chug of Deane's waiting machine. The only light in the big house back in the shadowy yard was the dim light that burned because a man was dying. Deane's hand went out to his steering wheel. "Well, so long, Ted," he said in a voice curiously gentle.
"'By, Deane," said the boy.
He drove on through the silent town in another mood. This boy's feeling had touched something in his heart that was softening. He had always been attracted to Ted Holland—his frank hazel eyes, something that seemed so square and so pleasant in the clear, straight features of his freckled face. He had been only a youngster of about thirteen when Ruth went away. She had adored him; "my good-looking baby brother," was her affectionate way of speaking of him. He was thinking what it would mean to Ruth to come home and find this warmth in Ted. Why, it might make all the difference in the world, he was gratefully considering.
When he came into the room where Amy was sleeping she awoke and sat up in bed, rubbing sleepy eyes blinded by the light. "Poor dear," she murmured at sight of his face, "so tired?"
He sat down on the bed; now that he was home, too tired to move. "Pretty tired. Woman died."
"Oh, Deane!" she cried. "Deane, I'm so sorry."
She reached over and put her arms around him. "You couldn't help it, dear," she comforted. "You couldn't help it."
Her sympathy was very sweet to him; as said by her, the fact that he couldn't help it did make some difference.