He forgot what he had been saying, and searched for it piteously. He sprang up, and paced the four steps each way that his chain allowed him.
“There, there, pa! I’ll come feed you your supper now,” Mrs. Folts soothed him.
But while she fed him, she was called away to the door, and thrust the dish into Lory’s hand, and went. The old man, seeing the dish recede, burst into savage grunting. The Inger took the plate from Lory, and sat beside him on the settle.
The old man ate—the Inger never forgot how. With his eyes immovably fixed on the Inger’s face, he crept cautiously forward to meet the spoon, and when he had the contents safe, drew back like a dog to his corner, with those strange grunting breaths.
“Poor old fellow!” the Inger tried to say, softly—and the grunting mounted to a snarl.
When they had fed him, the Inger drew Lory out into the quiet of the little garden.
“You can’t stand that,” he said. “I won’t have you stand that. You’ve got to get some place an’ get out o’ this.”
She looked down the dusk of the garden, and he was surprised to see that she was smiling a little.
“You don’t know,” she said. “With that—or hard work—or anything else—I’ll always think it’s heaven to what I thought had to happen.”
“You mean Inch?” he comprehended.