"Tell it now, my brother! Jesus is here."

Elvin raised his head, with a sudden fierce gesture toward Dilly.

"She knows," he said. "She can see the past. She'll tell you what I've
done."

"I 'ain't got nothin' to tell, dear," answered Dilly, peacefully.
"Everything you've done's between you an' God A'mighty. I 'ain't got
nothin' to tell!"

Then she went out, and, deftly unharnessing the horse, put him in her
little shed, and gave him a feed of oats. The hens had gone to bed
without their supper.

"No matter, biddies," she said, conversationally, as she passed their
roost. "I'll make it up to you in the mornin'!"

When she entered the house again, Elvin still sat there, staring
stolidly into the dusk. The parson was praying, and Molly, by the
window, was holding the sill tightly clasped by both hands, as if
threatening herself into calm. When the parson rose, he turned to
Elvin, less like the pastor than the familiar friend. One forgot his
gray hairs in the loving simplicity of his tone.

"My son," he said, tenderly, "tell it all! God is merciful."

But again Dilly put in her voice.