She took a few steps nearer to him.

"Father didn't mean to do any harm," she whispered hastily; "he's got no
more sin on his soul than a child that gets angry and fights for what it
wants. He's just like a child, father is; but it's been a lesson to
him, and he'll never do it again. Think of the shame to Christa and me
if he was hanged. And I've striven so to keep us respectable--Bart, you
know I have. There's no shame in the world like your father being----"
(there was a nervous gasp in her throat before she could go on)--"and
he'd be awfully frightened. Oh, you don't know how frightened he'd be!
If I thought they were going to do that to him, it would just kill me.
I'll do anything; I wouldn't mind so much if they'd take me and hang me
instead--it wouldn't scare me so much: but father would be just like a
child, crying and crying and crying, if they kept him in jail and were
going to do that in the end. And then no one would expect Christa and me
to have any more fun, and we never would have any. There's a way that
you can get father off, Bart, and give him at least one more chance to
run for his life. If you'll do it, I'll do whatever you want,--I'll sign
the pledge; I'll go to church; I'll teach Christa that way. She and I
won't dance any more. You can count on me. You can trust me. You know
that when I say a thing I'll do it."

He realised now what had happened to him--a thing that of all things he
had learned to dread most,--a desperate temptation. He answered, and his
tone and manner gave her no glimpse of the shock of opposing forces that
had taken place within a heart that for many months had been dwelling in
the calm of victory.

"I cannot do it, Ann."