“It’s just the place,” said John. Then he hesitated a minute. Hugh Tomlinson’s face had suddenly flashed before him--the red-rimmed eyes and the high, quavering voice.... Would Simeon object to his presence? He had always refused to speak of Tomlinson and he was gruffly silent when his name was mentioned.... But he had put him on the farm--rent-free--and he had sent the cheque--a thousand dollars.... John weighed the chances... and even while he hesitated, an instinct deeper than reason told him that the old Scotchman’s presence must be concealed from Simeon.... He might not mind. But there must be no risk.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I ’ll go down to see the Tomlinsons and get the house ready.”
The old Scotchman surveyed him with keen eyes. “He wants to come here?--Sim Tetlow wants to come _here_--to this farm!”
“Not here,” said John. “He ’ll be at the little house--down by the creek, you know.” The switchman was silent for a little. “A man can do what he likes wi’ his own,” he said at last gruffly. “He owns the farm--I ’ll go--”
“I hope you won’t go,” John said quickly. “We need some one to cook for us--good nourishing food--and I was going to ask your wife--?”
The old man’s eyes still pierced him. “Ye think Sim Tetlow ’ll get well on food ’t my Ellen ’d cook?--Choke him!” he said.
John waited a minute. “I was n’t going to tell him who cooked it--I thought he did n’t need to know.” He turned and looked at the man beside him. “He needs all the help we can give him, Hugh. He’s desperate.”
A slow, deep smile had come into the Scotch eyes--They glimmered to little points and sought the distant horizon. “He must e’en take his fate,” said the old man grimly, “wi’ the rest o’ us.”
“But we can help him,” said John. “I feel it. _You_ can help--”
“I ’ll do naught for him,” said the man sternly. “She’s within door, and ye can ask _her_. If she ’ll cook for Sim Tetlow, I ’ll bide by what she says. I ’ll not lift a hand to hinder--or help.” He moved toward the bam, walking with huge strides, like some grim, implacable fate.
John watched him for a moment. Then he turned and knocked on the farmhouse door.
When he lifted the latch, the little old woman by the stove looked up, bending gentle eyes upon him. She set down the frying-pan and came forward, The smile in her face like the October sunshine outside. “It’s Johnny Bennett,” she said, “and I was telling Hugh, but the morning, I’d be glad to see him.”