always say it."

The old look of pity came into her face. "I am older than thee by two
years," she answered quaintly, "and I know more of real life, though I
have lived always here. I have made the most of the little I have seen;
thee has made little of the much that thee has seen. Thee does not know
the truth concerning thee. Is it not, in truth, vanity which would have
me believe in thee? If thee was happier with me than with any one alive,
why then did thee make choice of a wife even in the days thee was
speaking to me as no man shall ever speak again? Nothing can explain
so base a fact. No, no, no, thee said to me what thee said to others,
and will say again without shame. But--but see, I will forgive; yes, I
will follow thee with good wishes, if thee will promise to help David,
whom thee has ever disliked, as, in the place held by thee, thee can do
now. Will thee offer this one proof, in spite of all else that
disproves, that thee spoke any words of truth to me in the Cloistered
House, in the garden by my father's house, by yonder mill, and hard by
the Meeting-house yonder-near to my sister's grave by the willow-tree?
Will thee do that for me?"

He was about to reply, when there appeared in the path before them Luke
Claridge. His back was upon them, but he heard their footsteps and swung
round. As though turned to stone, he waited for them. As they
approached, his lips, dry and pale, essayed to speak, but no sound came.
A fire was in his eyes which boded no good. Amazement, horror, deadly
anger, were all there, but, after a moment, the will behind the tumult
commanded it, the wild light died away, and he stood calm and still
awaiting them. Faith was as pale as when she had met Eglington. As she
came nearer, Luke Claridge said, in a low voice: