The boy looked up into his face with a glance of mute inquiry. He could not understand what the trouble was, but to him their homecoming was already a tragic failure. At last he said.
“Ain't this Benson, Pop?”
“Yes, it's Benson, sure enough, son.”
He glanced down at the child, and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A spasm of pain crossed his own face.
“We'll find them presently, son; and they'll be mighty glad to see us when we tell them why we have come back; and we mustn't forget to ask about that pony I've laid off to get you when our ship comes in.”
But the child had ceased to care. He scarcely raised his eyes as they went down the street.
The maples cast cool shadows about them. It was very still, for the town seemed sleeping in the sultry warmth of that June day. Once, twice, the stranger paused, and glanced about him as if to make sure of his surroundings, and then went on unhesitatingly, leading the child by the hand.
“There was a many of us once, son,” he was moved to say in a voice of reminiscent melancholy. “Your grandpap built a cabin down on the crick bank.”
They had already left the centre of the town, and were approaching a region of grass-grown side streets.
“There, yonder, you can see it—that old log house through the trees!”