it by the groaning sweep, and pour the water into the basin, and then
splash himself, with murmurs of comfort, presently muffled in the towel.
Her hearing followed him through his supper, and she knew he was
obediently eating it, and patiently waiting for her to account for
whatever was unwonted in her greeting. She loved him most of all for his
boylike submission to her will and every caprice of it, but now she hardly
knew how to deny his tacit question as he ventured in from the shed.

"Don't come near me, Laban," she said with a stony quiet. "Don't touch
me. I ain't your wife, any more."

He could not speak at first; then it was like him to ask, "Why--why--What
have I done, Nancy?"

"_You_, you poor soul?" she answered. "Nothing but good, all your
days! He's come back."

He knew whom she meant, but he had to ask, "Joseph Dylks? Why I thought
he was--"

"Don't say it! It's murder! I don't want you to have his blood on you
_too_. Oh, if he was _only_ dead! Yes, yes! I have a right to
wish it! Oh, God be merciful to me, a sinner!"

"When--when--how did you know it, Nancy?"

"Yesterday morning or day before--just after you left. I reckon he was
waitin' for you to go. I'm glad you went first." The man looked up at the
rifle resting on the pegs above the fireplace. "Laban, don't!" she cried.
"_I_ looked at it when he was walkin' away, and I know what you're