John Carrington’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. He did not share Mrs. Kipley’s admiration for her feline gift.
“Ned will appreciate that cat, though, Mrs. Kipley,” he said, genially. “You know he’s been studying art;” but with the word a shadow came over his face.
“It’s hard on the lad, bringing him back,” he said. “Yellow Dog will look pretty crude to him, I expect.”
He moved his head restlessly, and the leg in its swinging splint became more exasperatingly painful.
Of course it would be only natural for Ned to have grown away from home ties. It was an unspoken thought against which he had braced himself for all these ten days. If the boy came back half-heartedly, contemptuous of the place, indifferent to the mine, alienated from his father—that was the touch of the thumbscrew.
And yet, he told himself wearily, six years was a long time. The boy was talented, cultured, used to all the refinements of an older civilization. What wonder if—— And if he, through love for his son, and carrying out his mother’s wishes for his future, had been responsible for the separation which might mean all this?
Ah, well, he was not the first father, nor the last, to think out these same things, and try to see them dispassionately.
“He was real spry about starting,” said Mrs. Kipley.
John Carrington’s face relaxed.
“Caught the first boat,” he said. Then “Is his room ready and comfortable?” he demanded, as he had demanded many times.