the Cross Roads, the Wilkinses do. I can go now as well as in the morning.
I forgot to tell you," he added to his wife. "It was drove out of my mind."

"Oh, I don't blame you," she answered.

"I can have work there all the fall."

David Gillespie rubbed his forehead, and said tremulously: "I don't know
what to say. I suppose I am weak. It'll be _one_ kind of a lie. But,
Laban--I thank you--"

"I can come back here Sundays and see Nancy and the baby," Laban suggested.

The old man's voice shook. "You'll be making it harder for yourself," was
all he could say.

"But perhaps--perhaps there'll be light--that light you said--by and by--"

"Let us pray that there'll be no light from the Pit. I am a sinful man,
Laban, to let you do this thing. I ought to have strength for all of us.
But I am older now, I'm not what I was--the day has tried me, Nancy."

"Good-by, then, Laban," the woman said. "And don't you think hard of
David. I don't. And I'm not sure I'll ever let you come. Say good-by as if
it was for life." She turned to her brother. "We can kiss, I reckon?"

"Oh, I reckon," he lamented, and went indoors.

Laban opened his arms as if to take her in them; but she interposed the
baby.