with tears. With that
picture in his eyes it became impossible to balance the other problems
of his life. So he straightened himself stiffly and turned his gaze
away from her. He was seeing instead a picture of the squat shanty
where the copper worm was at work in the shadow, and for him it was a
picture of bondage.

So she waited, feeling some hint of realization for the struggle his
eyes mirrored.

There would be many other wet nights up there, he reflected as his jaw
set itself grimly; many nights of chilled and aching bones with that
wild thirst creeping seductively, everpoweringly upon him out of the
darkness. There would be the clutch of longing, strangling his heart
and gnawing at his stomach.

But if he _did_ promise and failed, he could never again recover his
self-respect. He would be doomed. With his face still averted, he spoke
huskily and laboriously.

"I reckon thar hain't no way ter make ye understand, Blossom. I don't
drink like some folks, jest ter carouse. I don't oftentimes want ter
tech hit, but seems like sometimes I jest _has_ ter hev hit. Hit's most
gin'rally when I'm plumb sick of livin' on hyar withouten no chance ter
better myself."

Even in the moonlight she could see that his face was drawn and pallid.
Then abruptly he wheeled:

"Ther Stacys always keeps thar bonds. I reckons ye wants me ter give ye
my hand thet I won't never tech another drop, Blossom, but I kain't do
thet yit--I've got ter fight hit out fust an' be plumb dead sartain
thet I could keep my word ef I pledged hit----"

Blossom heard her father calling her from the porch and as she seized
the boy's arms she found them set as hard as rawhide.

"I understands, Turney," she declared hastily, "an'--an'--I'm a-goin'
ter be prayin' fer ye afore I lays down ternight!"

As Turner watched the preacher mount and ride away, his daughter
walking alongside, he did not return to the house. He meant to fight it
out in his own way. Last night when the hills had rocked to the fury of
the storm--he had surrendered. To-night when the moonlit slopes drowsed
in the quiet of silver mists, the storm was in himself. Within a few
feet of the gate he took his seat at the edge of a thick rhododendron
bush, where the shadow blotted him into total invisibility. He sat
there drawn of face and his hands clenched and unclenched themselves.
He did not know it, but, in his silence and darkness, he was growing.
There was for him a touch of Golgotha i