men would, jest because the woman
had the money, an' I hadn't. I dunno's 't was exactly fair about the
cows, but somehow you kind o' set me at the head o' things, in the
beginnin', an' it never come into my mind"--

Amelia sat looking wanly past him. She began to see how slightly
argument would serve. Suddenly the conventions of life fell away from
her and left her young.

"Enoch," she said vigorously, "you've got to take me. Somehow, you've
got to. Talkin' won't make you see that what I said never meant no more
than the wind that blows. But you've got to keep me, or remember, all
your life, how you murdered me by goin' away. The farm's come between
us. Le's leave it! It's 'most time for the cars. You take me with you
now. If you tramp, I'll tramp. If you work out, so 'll I. But where you
go, I've got to go, too."

Some understanding of her began to creep upon him; he dropped the
child's hand, and came a step nearer. Enoch, in these latter days of his
life, had forgotten how to smile; but now a sudden, mirthful gleam
struck upon his face, and lighted it with the candles of hope. He stood
beside her, and Amelia did not look at him.

"Would you go with me, 'Melia?" he asked.

"I'm goin'," said she doggedly. Her case had been lost, but she could
not abandon it. She seemed to be holding to it in the face of righteous
judgment.

"S'pose I don't ask you?"

"I'll foller on behind."

"Don't ye want to go home, an' lock up, an' git a bunnit?"

She put one trembling hand to the calico apron about her head.

"No."

"Don't ye want to leave the key with some o' the neighbors?"

"I don't want anything in the world but you," owned Amelia shamelessly.

Enoch bent suddenly, and drew her to her feet. "'Melia," said he, "you
look up here."

She raised her drawn face and looked at him, not because she wished, but
because she must. In her abasement, there was no obedience which she
would deny him. But she could only see that he was strangely happy, and
so the more removed from her own despair. Enoch swiftly passed his arm
about her, and turned her homeward. He laughed a little. Being a man, he
must laugh when that bitter ache in the throat presaged more bitter
tears.

"Come, 'Melia," said he, "come along home, an' I'll tell you all about
the cows. I made a real good bargain. Come, Rosie."

Amelia could not answer. It seemed to her as if love had dealt with her
as she had not deserved; and she went on, exalted, afraid of