She drew away coldly at this remembrance, which had been obliterated by
Reddin's grief.

'You'm got the blood of a many little foxes on you,' she said, and her
voice cut him like sharp sleet--'little foxes as met have died quick
and easy wi' a gunshot. And you've watched 'em minced alive.'

'I'll give it up if you'll chuck the parson.'

'I won'er you dunna see 'em, nights, watching you out of the black dark
with their gold eyes, like kingcups, and the look in 'em of things
dying hard. I won'er you dunna hear 'em screaming.'

His cause was lost, and he knew it, but he pleaded on.

'No. If I hadna swore by the Mountain I wouldna come,' she said.
'You've got blood on you.'

At that moment a neighbour passed and offered Hazel a lift. Now that
she was marrying a minister, she had become a personality. Hazel
climbed in and drove off, and Reddin's tragic moment died, as great
fires die, into grey ash.

He went home heavily. His way lay past the parsonage where Edward and
his mother slept peacefully. The white calm of unselfish love wrapped
Edward, for he felt that he could make Hazel happy. As he fell asleep
that night he thought:

'She was made for a minister's wife.'