“Johnny made a boat, papa, but it wouldn't swim. It sunk when he put sand on it. Will you make me a boat, papa?”
“Yes, Billy.”
“When, papa?”
“To-morrow, Billy.” Pole pressed his rough face to the child's smooth, perspiring brow, and then put him down. “Now run and play,” he said.
“I've put on some coffee to boil,” said Mrs. Baker when the child had left. “I know you want some. Pole, you look all unstrung. I never seed you so nervous. Yore hands are twitchin', an' I never seed sech a awful look in yore face. Don't you want me to cook some'n' special fer you to eat, Pole?”
“Not a thing, Sally,” he gulped. “The coffee is enough.”
She went into the house and came back with it. As she drew near he noted that the sun was fast going down; the shadow of the hill, to the west of the cottage, was creeping rapidly across the level field below. It would soon be eight o'clock, and then—
“Here it is,” said Sally, at his elbow. “It's as strong as I could make it. It will steady your nerves. Oh, Pole, I'm so glad you got back! I couldn't have gone through another night like the others. It would have killed me.”
He raised the coffee-cup to keep from seeing her wistful, dark-ringed eyes.
Night came on apace. He sat in his chair while she busied herself with heeding and putting the children to bed. Her voice rang with joy and relief as she spoke to them; once she sang a bar of an old ballad. It vividly recalled their courtship days. He moved his chair to the porch. He sat there awhile, and then went to feed his horse and cattle, telling himself, the while, that he had made his wife do his work for the past ten days that he might sink to the level of a beast.