“You'd better come on,” Warren urged, gently. “It won't do to hold hard feelin's after a feller has put himself out to come forward like a man an'—”
“I ain't goin' a step!” Mrs. Warren blurted out in a sob of bewildered protest. “I—I don't want to see 'im ever ag'in! I ain't goin' up there. Tell 'im to go away. We ain't his sort. He's belittlin' himself to come from that fine house up there an' them fine folks to our dirty shack just because I am—am—his mother.”
“Come on, come on, don't begin that!” Warren was at the end of his resources. He deliberated for a moment, then caught his wife by the arm and attempted to draw her forward, but with a low cry she sank to the ground and buried her face in her lap. He stood over her, his gaze sweeping back to the cabin in the distance.
“Come on—what will he think?” Warren pleaded, in a bewildered tone. “I don't think I'd—I'd hurt his feelin's after—after—”
“I don't care what he thinks or does,” surged up from the submerged lips. “I'll not go a step till he's gone.”
“Well, I've done all I can,” Warren sighed. “But I'll have to make some excuse.”
Trudging back to the cabin, he met Paul advancing eagerly toward him.
“Couldn't you find her?” the young man inquired, anxiously.
“Yes, I found her.” Warren pointed to the swamp with a jerky sweep of his rheumatic arm. “I told 'er, too; but she wouldn't budge a step. She's ashamed. If you knowed everything, you'd understand how she feels. I'm dead sure she don't harbor a speck o' ill-will. She's a changed woman, Paul Rundel. She ain't the creature you left. I never give 'er no child, an' it looks like she's gone back in her mind to your baby days, an' she feels like she didn't do her full duty. I've ketched her many a time huggin' little youngsters, an' I knowed what that meant. She thought you was dead till yesterday, and of course you can see how—”
“I think I'll walk down there,” Paul said, his face turned toward the swamp. “I must see her tonight.”