I go off and
cry by myself."

Jude from his shadow and aloofness was staring dumbly at the pair
opposite while the low-spoken words sank into his drowsiness. Jude was
primitive. Actions were _things_ to him; things that admitted of no
shades of meaning. What the two were saying in no way modified the
situation. Gaston's hand was caressing his wife--his woman, Jude would
have expressed it--and the bald fact was enough.

A hot anger rose in him--an anger calculated to urge a personal assault
then and there, upon the two who dared, in his own house, set his
rights--his alone--aside.

The sleepy eyes widened and closed; the teeth showed through the rough
beard--and then, like a smarting blow, came the memory of all that
Gaston meant to him. Money! Gaston's money. There had been loans,
trifling, but many, and now Gaston stood ready to advance money for this
new building project. Money enough to make Jude master of the situation.
But with this thought came others that crushed and bruised him.

He had been wrong. It was not his wife's folly alone that stood between
him and her. Gaston _had_ been using him. He was lending him money--hush
money! And while he had gone his stupid way, thinking he held the whip
hand over Joyce, the two had had their laugh at him. Money has done
much for good and evil in this world, but it saved Gaston that night
from a desperate attack.

A low cunning crept into Jude's thoughts. Very well, two or three could
play at the same game.

More money! More! More! and who knew? Why he might make a choice in the
future--a choice for himself.

He settled back and snored long and deep. Then he stretched and yawned
and gave ample notice of his advance, in order that the conspirators
might cover their tracks.

When he opened his eyes, Gaston was leaning forward with clasped hands
stretched out toward the fading glow, and Joyce, crouched upon her stool
with huddled knees, gave no sign that confusion held part in her
thoughts.

"Say," Jude had already adopted the guise of the man with a purpose,
"you don't suppose, do you, that that young parson is coming up here
with any idea of saving souls?"

"Only his own, I fancy." Gaston replied, without turning. "He wants to
keep his soul and body together. Seeking his lost health, you know."

"What makes him fancy he lost it up here?"

"He doesn't. He lost it down there among books, bad air, and foolish
living. His physicians tell him his only chance for l