The mutter came through the door.

“That’s all,” said Kate. “The dirty pigs!” she muttered. “They’d rot if I didn’t watch them. Go out and bring in the tea tray.”

The bedroom was empty when Cal opened the door. He carried the tray into the lean-to and set it gingerly on the tilted reading table. It was a large silver tray, and on it were a pewter teapot, two paper-thin white teacups, sugar, cream, and an open box of chocolates.

“Pour the tea,” said Kate. “It hurts my hands.” She put a chocolate in her mouth. “I saw you looking at this room,” she went on when she had swallowed her candy. “The light hurts my eyes. I come in here to rest.” She saw Cal’s quick glance at her eyes and said with finality, “The light hurts my eyes.” She said harshly, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want tea?”

“No, ma’am,” said Cal, “I don’t like tea.”

She held the thin cup with her bandaged fingers. “All right. What do you want?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Just wanted to look at me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How do I look?” She smiled crookedly at him and showed her sharp white little teeth.

“All right.”

“I might have known you’d cover up. Where’s your brother?”

“In school, I guess, or home.”

“What’s he like?”

“He looks more like you.”

“Oh, he does? Well, is he like me ?”

“He wants to be a minister,” said Cal.

“I guess that’s the way it should be—looks like me and wants to go into the church. A man can do a lot of damage in the church. When someone comes here, he’s got his guard up. But in church a man’s wide open.”

“He means it,” said Cal.

She leaned toward him, and her face was alive with interest. “Fill my cup. Is your brother dull?”

“He’s nice,” said Cal.

“I asked you if he’s dull.”

“No, ma’am,” said Cal.

She settled back and lifted her cup. “How’s your father?”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Cal said.

“Oh, no! You like him then?”

“I love him,” said Cal.

Kate peered closely at him, and a curious spasm shook her—an aching twist rose in her chest. And then she closed up and her control came back.

“Don’t you want some candy?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?”

“Why did you shoot my father and run away from us.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. He didn’t tell us.”

She touched one hand with the other and her hands leaped apart as though the contact burned them. She asked, “Does your father ever have any—girls or young women come to your house?”

“No,” said Cal. “Why did you shoot him and go away?”

Her cheeks tightened and her mouth straightened, as though a net of muscles took control. She raised her head, and her eyes were cold and shallow.

“You talk older than your age,” she said. “But you don’t talk old enough. Maybe you’d better run along and play—and wipe your nose.”