But he persisted. "If I was to clear out of this..."
"Go—go away?" she stammered, as if his previous words had been a meaningless ejaculation. "Go right away? Whatever for?"
"I bin 'ere all these years and I 'aven't been 'appy. A man want a little 'appiness in's life."
"Oh, Leadville, don't say such things. I've done my best to make you 'appy and comfortable."
"You couldn't do it," he said and added with finality, "you wasn't the right one."
The tears were running down her face, her poor quivering face which to his eyes looked so old, so unattractive. "I've done my best—my best."
"If I was to clear out of this..." he said, returning to what occupied his mind. Why could she not believe him, realize that for her own sake, she must let him go? Even now it was not too late. He glanced at the brown jug on the stove—not too late yet.
"No," she cried, "no, don't 'ee go away."
"One of us got to go, then."
But she had found the answer, the word of power. "Not—not till death us do part," she responded.