out in Illinois, an' he says that business Dan wrote to you
about--well, there never was none! There ain't a stick o' furniture
made there! An' Dan's been cuttin' a dash lately with money he got
som'er's or other, an' he's gambled, an' I dunno what all, an' been
took up. An' now he's in jail. So don't you send him nothin'. I thought
I'd speak."

Elvin looked at him a moment, with a strange little smile dawning about
his mouth.

"That's all right," he said, quickly, and drove away.

To Molly, the road home was like a dark passage full of formless fears.
She did not even know what had befallen the dear being she loved best;
but something dire and tragic had stricken him, and therefore her. The
parson was acutely moved for the anguish he had not probed. Only Dilly
remained cheerful. When they reached her gate, it was she who took the
halter from Elvin's hand, and tied the horse. Then she walked up the
path, and flung open her front door.

"Come right into the settin'-room," she said. "I'll git ye some water
right out o' the well. My throat's all choked up o' dust."

The cheerful clang of the bucket against the stones, the rumble of the
windlass, and then Dilly came in with a brimming bright tin dipper. She
offered it first to the parson, and though she refilled it scrupulously
for each pair of lips, it seemed a holy loving-cup. They sat there in
the darkening room, and Dilly "stepped round" and began to get supper.
Molly nervously joined her, and addressed her, once or twice, in a
whisper. But Dilly spoke out clearly in, answer, as if rebuking her.