higher price.
The sun poured down upon the shadeless hill and beat upon her and soon her coat was wet and dark with her sweat. But she would not rest at all except sometimes to suckle the babe when he cried, and then she sat flat on the earth and suckled him and wiped her hot face and stared across the brilliant summer land, seeing nothing. When he was satisfied she put him down again to work once more and she worked until her body ached and her mind was numb and she thought of nothing now except of those weeds falling under the point of her hoe and withering in the dry hot sunshine. At last the sun rested on the edge of the land and the valley fell into sudden shadow. Then she straightened herself and wiped her wet face with her coat and she muttered aloud, “Surely he will be home waiting—I must go to make his food.” And picking up the child from the bed of soft earth where she had laid him she went home.
But he was not there. When she turned the corner of the house he was not there. The old woman was peering anxiously toward the field, and the two children sat upon the doorstep waiting and weary and they cried out when they saw her and she said bewildered, “Your father—is he not come yet?”
“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 sun poured down upon the shadeless hill and beat upon her and soon her coat was wet and dark with her sweat. But she would not rest at all except sometimes to suckle the babe when he cried, and then she sat flat on the earth and suckled him and wiped her hot face and stared across the brilliant summer land, seeing nothing. When he was satisfied she put him down again to work once more and she worked until her body ached and her mind was numb and she thought of nothing now except of those weeds falling under the point of her hoe and withering in the dry hot sunshine. At last the sun rested on the edge of the land and the valley fell into sudden shadow. Then she straightened herself and wiped her wet face with her coat and she muttered aloud, “Surely he will be home waiting—I must go to make his food.” And picking up the child from the bed of soft earth where she had laid him she went home.
But he was not there. When she turned the corner of the house he was not there. The old woman was peering anxiously toward the field, and the two children sat upon the doorstep waiting and weary and they cried out when they saw her and she said bewildered, “Your father—is he not come yet?”
“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
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