The afternoon sun
was beating in over the threshold as he reached it, and, at his footstep,
a figure started forward from the shadow of a corner.
It was Kate Heaver.
Surprise, then pain showed in her face; she flushed, was agitated.
"I am sorry. It's too bad--it's hard on him you should see," she said in
a breath, and turned her head away for an instant; but presently looked
him in the face again, all trembling and eager. "He'll be sorry enough
to-morrow," she added solicitously, and drew away from something, she had
been trying to hide.
Then David saw. On a bench against a wall lay old Soolsby--drunk. A cloud
passed across his face and left it pale.
"Of course," he said simply, and went over and touched the heaving
shoulders reflectively. "Poor Soolsby!"
"He's been sober four years--over four," she said eagerly. "When he knew
you'd come again, he got wild, and he would have the drink in spite of
all. Walking from Heddington, I saw him at the tavern, and brought him
home."
"At the tavern--" David said reflectively.
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