He did neither. They drove in silence through the town and passed over
a small bridge and into the road that led to the farm. Tom was curious
about his daughter and a little uncomfortable. Ever since the evening
on the porch of the farmhouse, when he had accused her of some unnamed
relationship with John May, he had felt guilty in her presence but had
succeeded in transferring the notion of guilt to her. While she was away
at school he had been comfortable. Sometimes he did not think of her for
a month at a time. Now she had written that she did not intend to go back.
She had not asked his advice, but had said positively that she was coming
home to stay. He wondered what was up. Had she got into another affair with
a man? He wanted to ask, had intended to ask, but in her presence found
that the words he had intended to say would not come to his lips. After
a long silence Clara began to ask questions about the farm, the men who
worked there, her aunt's health, the usual home-coming questions. Her
father answered with generalities. "They're all right," he said, "every one
and everything's all right."
The road began to lift out of the valley in which the town lay, and Tom
stopped the horse and pointing with the whip talked of the town. He was
relieved to have the silence broken, and decided not to say anything about
the letter announcing the end of her school life.
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