The man's deep chest lifted and fell. "Seein'," he interrupted fiercely, "as Tom wish for'm to be there, seein' as 'is wife wish it..."
"'Is—'is wife?" stammered Sabina.
"Don't Isolda wish it? You know she do; but my li'l bird don't wish it. I don't believe she do."
The blood, which had drained out of the woman's face, returned with a rush. She opened her lips but found herself voiceless and gasping. "Don't say like that, Leadville," she whispered at last. "Don't 'ee, don't 'ee say it—not to me."
The man threw back his head and, as if unable in any other way to express his feelings, broke into a laugh. "You!" he said. "You!"
Sabina turned the trolly handle, pushing it blindly out of the room. She was running away as a man runs from licking, climbing flames. She could not yield, could not knuckle under, but she could retreat until strong enough to resume the struggle. The tears were running down her face as she turned into the linhay, but they were tears forced from her by pain. Like the child in the story she could have said, "It is my eyes that's cryin', not me."
For behind the wall of her tired and suffering body was her indomitable spirit.
CHAPTER XIII
Sabina's mental attitude towards events and persons was often one of surprise and protest. It was now.
"What 'av I done that 'e should treat me like this?" she thought. Her right-doing was the outstanding thing in her life and could not be missed. It was like a bonfire on a hill. If the wages of sin were death, the reward of righteousness which she deserved, should be love and faith. Laying claim to this reward, her poor mind, groped in a long bewilderment. For love and faith had been withheld.