The effort gave a twitch to the pale,
lower lip.
Sylvie stood up, singing as though in absent-minded idleness, and
vanished into the house. It would have been difficult to tell whether
or not she had heard Hugh's arrival.
"What's the matter?" Pete stammered like a boy wakened from a dream
to behold a lifted cane. "Let go my arm, Hugh. Your fingers cut."
"Come away from the house," said Hugh coldly, tightening the iron
grip as though Pete's wincing gave him satisfaction. "Come up here
by the pines. I want to talk to you."
"I'll come," said Pete. "Let go my arm."
There was that in his voice that compelled obedience. Hugh's hand
fell and knotted into a fist. Pete walked beside him up the abrupt
slope of their hollow to the little hill above the river. Its noise
was loud in the still, sunny air. There was no wind stirring. It was
high noon. A sloping tent of shadow drooped from the pines and made
a dark circle about their roots. In this transparent, purplish tent
the brothers faced each other. Pete's lips were tremulous, and Hugh's
distorted.
"Now," said Hugh, breathing irregularly and speaking very low, "I'll
tell you what I think of you."
"No, Hugh, don't," Pete pleaded.
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