n who swore before God
forty and odd years ago to love and honor me."

"Crinkleum-crankum!" cried Mrs. Fairbrother. "A pretty thing, truly,
that I should toil and moil at my age to keep house and home together
ready and waiting for you, when your zany doings have shut every
other door against you. Misfortunes, indeed! A fine name for your
mistakes!"

"I may have made mistakes, madam," said Adam; "but true it is, as the
wise man has said, that he who has never made mistakes has never made
anything."

"Tush!" said Mrs. Fairbrother.

"Ruth, do you refuse to take me in?" said Adam.

"This house is mine," said she; "mine by law and deed, as tight as
wax can make it."

"Do you refuse to take me in?" said Adam again, rising to his feet.

"You have brought ruin on yourself by your shilly-shally and vain
folly," said she; "and now you think to pat your nose and say your
prayers by my fireside."

"Ruth," said Adam once more, "do you refuse to take me in?"

"Yes, and that I do," said she. "You would beggar me as you have
beggared yourself, but that I warrant you never shall."

Then there was a grim silence for a moment. Old Adam gripped
convulsively the staff he leaned on, and all but as loud as the
ticking of the clock was the beating of his heart.

"God give me patience," he said. "Yes, I'll bear it meekly. Ruth," he
said, huskily, "I'll not trouble you. Make yourself sure of that.
While there's a horse-wallet to hang on my old shoulders, and a bit
of barley bread to put in it, I'll rove the country round, but I'll
never come on my knees to you and say, 'I am your husband, I gave you
all you had, and you are rich and I'm a beggar, and I am old--give me
for charity my bed and board.'"

But, unable to support any longer the strife for mastery that was
tearing at his heart, he gave way to his wrath, and cried out in a
loud voice, "Out on you, woman! Out on you! God forgive me the evil
day I set eyes on you! God forgive me the damned day I took you to my
breast to rend it."

While this had been going forward Greeba had stood silent at the back
of her father's chair, with eyelashes quivering and the fingers of
both hands clenched together. But now she stepped forward and said,
"Forgive him, mother. Do not be angry with him. He will be sorry for
what he has said: I'm sure he will. But only think, dear mother: he
is in great, great trouble, and he is past work, and if this is not
his home, then he is homeless."

And