Fausch was sitting in his dark, dingy living room. It was already almost night. The smith had long ago left off working, and the table was already set for him and the boy. Fausch did not light the lamp. He liked to sit in the dark, which grew gradually deeper in the room, until his heavy form was no longer recognizable, but only a red point, the glow and the smoke of his pipe, and his heavy breathing betrayed his presence. Then Katharine opened the door. "The boy has not got home yet," said she. Her breath came short.
"He will soon come," answered Stephen.
But Cain did not come, although he ought to have been home from school hours ago.
Another hour passed. Stephen Fausch's pipe went out. He was half dozing. Then Katharine came in again, for she could find no peace. "He--some one ought to go and look for him," she said.
Stephen waked up. "Bring in the soup. If he does not come at the right time, he can go to bed hungry," he grumbled.
The old woman obeyed, and brought in the soup, but her hands and knees were trembling. She meant to hurry over to the village herself afterward, to see what had become of the boy.
Meanwhile the smith had lighted the lamp on the table. He sat down at his own place. The red light of the lamp shone on his black woolly head. Just then footsteps were heard on the outer stairs.
Katharine ran out to the landing. "Boy," she called out in the darkness.
"Yes!" came the answer. He was there. Slowly he came up the steps. His heavy shoes usually made no noise, for he stepped very lightly. They clattered now, as if he were stumbling. The maid lifted up the light. "Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed.
The boy's face was as white as snow, his clothes were torn and in disorder, but even now they were noticeably clean.