It seems queer that neither of you said anything about it, if I was really born in this very town.... I might never have thought much about it, but to-night everything seems to be stirred up. Tell me, mother—
We lived here only a little while. We didn’t like it, so your father sold his farm and we went away to New York.
Yes, but why wasn’t something said about it when we came here this afternoon? It seems funny, not to.
Dear, there was a little family trouble, long ago, which is best forgotten.
It wasn’t Harold, after all, but I just had to stay and listen to him. He tried over and over to tell me something. I couldn’t make out what it was until he showed me with his hands—you know that funny little way he has—and what do you suppose it was?
The dear child. What was it?
Why, he remembered the big drum he saw once in a parade, and he was trying to explain that he was inside a drum. The rain, you know.
We had to jack up the car. The barn is flooding with water.
Is that where you were?
Yes.... How strange you look in that light, Alice! I never saw you look like that before. (He kisses her)
What is it, Alice?
Why ... I thought his cigar was going to burn me.
Alice, you jumped because you didn’t like my breath. I’m sorry, I did take a drink, and I shouldn’t have kissed you, only....
She looked just as Mary did when I first knew her. It startled me.