“Father’s not coming,” Clarence said. “When he comes he’s on time.”
“You tell the prayers,” said Ruth. She was the oldest.
“Nonsense,” said Cornelia. “We’ll call it off.”
Ruth smirked. She was glad her sister had committed herself.
Laura was silent: Laura who was the youngest and yet a terrible age had eaten her. She was lanky and somehow starved. Her eyes drooped, her large hands hung limp, her breasts sagged under a thick brown frock. She was all dull, she was mournful and dry like the bald patches of earth in the field. Laura was the one who was sorry. She did not wish to hear her brother: she missed her father. She loved the bite of his words, the frequent blow of his hand. The Hell he pictured was sweet to her since he consigned it. Laura loved her father with the harsh lust of brown soil for the water that does not come. She was dry and hot and sick with this sterile love of her father.
Clarence got up. “I guess not,” he said. “I’m going.”
He was younger only than Ruth. He was twenty-four. He went each day in the buggy to Dahlton where he attended the Presbyterian Seminary. He was following the career of his father.
Cornelia and Tom were alone. They looked at each other. A single instinct moved them. “Let’s go back,” she whispered. They clasped hands.
They heard the crashing of the underbrush, a deep sudden breathing. They stood there silent. A tall man backed out from the clump of little cedars. He turned and dashed the clay model against a rock. Cornelia screamed.
Mr. Rennard looked at his two children. His fingers trembled. He kicked the ruins of the statue back from his heels and came upon them.