“He has not come and we are hungry,” cried the boy, and the girl echoed in her broken, childish way, “Not come, and we are hungry!” and sat with her eyes fast shut against the piercing last golden rays of the sun. And the old mother rose and hobbled to the edge of the threshing-floor and called out shrilly to the cousin coming home, “Saw you my son anywhere?”
But the mother cried out in sudden impatience, “Let be, old mother! Do not tell all he is not come!”
“Well, but he does not,” said the old woman, peering, troubled.
But the mother said no more. She fetched cold rice for the children and heated a little water and poured it over the rice for the old woman and found a morsel of some old food for the dog, and while they ate she went down the street, the babe upon her arm, to the wayside inn. There were but few guests there now, and only a scattered one or two on his way home to some near village, for it was the hour when men are in their homes and the day’s work done. If he were there, she thought, he would be sitting at a table nearest the street where he could hear and see whatever passed, or at a table with a guest, for he would not be alone if he could help it, or if there was a game going on, he would be in the middle of it. But although she stared as she came there was no glint of a new blue robe and no clatter of gambling upon a table. She went and looked within the door then, but he was not there. Only the innkeeper stood resting himself after the evening meal and he leaned against the wall by his stove, his face black with the smoke and grease of many days, for in such a blackish trade as his it seemed to him but little use to wash himself, seeing he was black again so soon.
“Have you seen the father of my children?” the mother called.
But the innkeeper picked at his teeth with his black fingernail and sucked and called back idly, “He sat here a while in that new blue robe of his this morning and then he went townward for the day.” And smelling some new gossip he cried afresh, “What—has aught happened, goodwife?”
“Nothing—nothing—” replied the mother in haste. “He had business in the town and it kept him late, I dare swear, and it may be he will spend the night somewhere and come home tomorrow.”
“And what business?” asked the innkeeper suddenly curious.
“How can I know, being but a woman?” she answered and turned away.
But on the way home while her lips called answer back to those who called to her as she passed, she thought of something. When she reached the house she went in and went to that cranny and felt in it. It was empty. Well she knew there had been a precious small store of copper coins there, and a small silver bit, too, because he had sold the rice straw for a good price a day or two ago, being clever at such things, and he brought a good part of the money back. She had taken it from him and counted it and put it into the cranny and there it should be. But it was not there.
Then she knew indeed that he was gone. It came over her in a daze that he was truly gone. She sat down suddenly there in the earthen house upon the earthen floor and holding the babe in her arms she rocked herself back and forth slowly and in silence. Well, he was gone! Here was she with the three children and the old woman, and he gone!
The babe began to fret suddenly and without knowing what she did she opened her bosom to him. The two children came in, the girl whimpering and rubbing her eyes, and the old woman came in leaning on her staff and saying over and over, “I do wonder where is my son. Daughter, did my son say where he was? A very strange thing where my son is gone—”
Then the mother rose and said, “He will be back tomorrow, doubtless, old mother. Lie you down now and sleep. He will be back tomorrow.”
The old mother listened and echoed, comforted, “Oh, aye, back tomorrow doubtless,” and went to her pallet, feeling through the dim room.
Then the mother led the two children into the dooryard and washed them as her wont was on a summer’s night before they slept, and she poured a gourdful of water over each of them, rubbing their smooth brown flesh clean with her palm as she poured. But she did not hear what they said, nor did she heed the girl’s moaning of her eyes. Only when they went to the bed and the boy cried, astonished that his father was not come, “And where does my father sleep, then?”—only then did the mother answer out of her daze, “Doubtless in the town, for he will come home tomorrow or in a day or so,” and she added in sudden anger, “Doubtless when that bit of money is gone he will be home again,” and she added again and most bitterly, “And that new blue robe will be filthy and ready for me to wash already, doubtless!”
And she was somehow glad she could be angry at him, and she held her anger, clinging to it, because it made him seem more near, and she clung to it while she led in the beast and barred the door against the night and she muttered, “I dare swear I shall be just asleep when he comes pounding at the door, even tonight!”
But in the dark night, in the still, hot night, in the silence of the closed room, her anger went out of her
