tensity of sudden
pain--what if Jim and Lisbeth--? The sound of sobbing broke in upon my
reverie. Con Darton was delivering the funeral oration.

"My friends," I heard him saying through the streams of thought that
encompassed me, "we are here out of respect for a woman all of ye
knew,--and whose life--and whose character--ye all--knew." He paused to
give more weight to what he was about to say. "Margaret Carn was like
the rest of us. She had her qualities--and she had her--failings. I want
to say to you today that there's a time fur knowing these things--and a
time fur--forgettin' them." His voice on the last words dropped abruptly
away. There was the sound of rain spattering among the loosened lumps of
clay. "Such a time is now." His left hand dropped heavily to his side.
"I tell you there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner who
repenteth than over ninety-and-nine--"

I grabbed Jim's arm to assure myself of something warm and human. But
his eyes were still fixed on Lisbeth, whose gaze was in turn riveted on
her father's face. It occurred to me with a swift sense of helplessness
that she and I were probably the only two who could even vaguely realize
any of the inner motives of Con Darton's mind, as we certainly were the
only persons who knew how great a wrong had been done to Margaret Carn's
memory that day. To the rest she was stamped forever as a lying gossip,
forgiven by the very man she had striven to harm. I shuddered; and Jim,
feeling it, turned to me and drew me towards Lisbeth. Outside of the
scattering crowd she saw us and greeted me gravely; then gave her hand
to Jim with a little quickening gesture of trust.

We went down the road together, taking the longest way to the foot of
the hill, Jim loquacious, eager; Lisbeth silent. The rain had melted
into a soft mist, and through it her face took on a greater remoteness,
a pallid, elfin quality. At the foot of the hill, which had to be
climbed again to reach the old farmhouse, she stopped, glancing up to
the plank where the turkeys were already roosting.

"Not going up the hill, Lisbeth?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"We live here now," she said.

"Not--?"

"All the year round.--It's cheaper," she added with that little touch of
staunchness that had become hers.

"But it's too--"

I was cut short by the look of anguish in her eyes, the most poignant
sign of emotion that I had seen her show since my return. There was an
awkward silence, whi