"I hear you'm bad," he said, coolly, but it was plain that her
altered appearance shocked him. Every now and again, when she was
not looking, he gave long wondering glances at her, and his eyes were
almost troubled. "So I hear you and the kid have been living
together again."
"Huldah? Oh, Tom, she's been such a comfort to me--"
"That's all right. I s'pose she isn't such a bad kid, on the whole."
"She's more'n good to me." Then quickly, feverishly she began to
pour out the story of her life since he "was took away." She told
him of Charlie and the van, and how she was tricked. Of her coming
to Huldah, and their home together, and her own illness, until
gradually her voice grew weary and fainter and fainter. The flush
died out of her cheeks, the light out of her eyes. She was
exhausted, but after she could not even whisper, a smile still
hovered about her lips, and her hand held that of her husband.
He sat on, apparently content to do so. When her voice ceased, he
did not seem to notice. He appeared to be lost in thought to which
no one had the clue.
Huldah sat as still as a mouse, never speaking, and hoping to escape
being spoken to. Occasionally she placed a piece of coal or wood on
the fire, but that was all. She could not see her aunt's face, but
she thought at last she must be asleep, she was so still and quiet.
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