Evidently this photograph, in an oval frame of old-time water gilt, was
a portrait of Miss Herold's mother. What a charming face, with its
delicate, high-bred nose and lips! The boy, Jim, had her mouth and nose,
and his sister her eyes, slightly tilted to a slant at the outer
corners--beautifully shaped eyes, he remembered.
He lingered a moment, then strolled on, viewing with tolerant
indifference the few poor ornaments on the mantel, the chromos of wild
ducks and shore birds, and found himself again by the lamp-lit table
from which he had started his explorations.
On it were Jim's Latin book, a Bible, and several last year's magazines.
Idly he turned the flyleaf of the schoolbook. Written there was the
boy's name--"Jim, from Daddy."
As he was closing the cover a sudden instinct arrested his hand, and,
not knowing exactly why, he reopened the book and read the inscription
again. He read it again, too, with a vague sensation of familiarity with
it, or with the book, or something somehow connected with it, he could
not tell exactly what; but a slightly uncomfortable feeling remained as
he laid aside the book and stood with brows knitted and eyes absently
bent on the stove.
The next moment Jim came in, wearing a faded overcoat which he had
outgrown.
"Hello!" said Marche, looking up. "Are you ready for me, Jim?"
"Yes, sir."
"What sort of a chance have I?"
"I'm afraid it is blue-bird weather," said the boy diffidently.
Marche scowled, then smiled. "Your sister said it would probably be that
kind of weather. Well, we all have to take a sporting chance with things
in general, don't we, Jim?"
"Yes, sir."
Marche picked up his gun case and cartridge box. The boy offered to take
them, but the young man shook his head.
"Lead on, old sport!" he said cheerily. "I'm a beast of more burdens
than you know anything about. How's your father, by the way?"
"I think father is about the same."
"Doesn't he need a doctor?"
"No, sir, I think not."
"What is it, Jim? Fever?"
"I don't know," said the boy, in a low voice. He led the way, and Marche
followed him out of doors.
A gray light made plain the desolation of the scene, although the sun
had not yet risen. To the south and west the sombre pine woods stretched
away; eastward, a few last year's cornstalks stood, withered in the
clearing, through which a rutted road ran down to the water.