“A letter for me, dear?” she queried.
“Yes Mrs. O’Dell—from dad,” replied the stranger.
“You are Richard Sherwood’s little girl?”
“Yes, I’m Marion.”
“And you came alone? Not all the way from French River?”
“Most of the way—alone. I—dad——”
Ben became suddenly aware of the fact that the queer little girl was crying. She was still looking steadily up into his mother’s face but tears were brimming her eyes and sparkling on her cheeks and her lips were trembling. He turned away in pained confusion. For several minutes he stared fixedly at the foliage and green apples of the orchard; when he ventured to turn again he found himself alone.
Ben passed through the woodshed into the kitchen. There he found his uncle frying pancakes in a fever of distracted effort, spilling batter, scorching cakes and perspiring.
“Where are they?” he asked.
Uncle Jim motioned toward an inner door with the long knife with which he was working so hard and accomplishing so little. Ben took the knife away from him, cleared the griddle of smoking ruins and scraped it clean.