But now, I want to tell everybody--I long to be free from pretending!
Can't you see?"

Something big and round in his throat hurt him so that he could not
answer at once. He clenched his hands, enraged by the futility of his
pity for her.

"Mrs. Daggett seems a kind soul," she murmured. "She would be my
friend. I am sure of it. But--the others--"

She sighed.

"I used to fancy how they would all come to the station to meet
him--after I had paid everybody, I mean--how they would crowd about
him and take his hand and tell him they were glad it was all over;
then I would bring him home, and he would never even guess it had
stood desolate during all these years. He has forgotten so much
already; but he remembers home--oh, quite perfectly. I went to see
him last week, and he spoke of the gardens and orchards. That is how
I knew how to have things planted: he told me."

He got hastily to his feet: her look, her voice--the useless smart of
it all was swiftly growing unbearable.

"You must wait--I must think!" he said unsteadily. "You ought not to
have told me."

"Do you think I should have told the minister, instead?" she asked
rather piteously. "He has been very kind; but somehow--"