“Oh, Will, I could a’most jump out the window!”
“’T would be easier for me to come up-long.”
“No, no; not for the world, Will!”
“Why for not? An’ you that lovely, twinklin’ in your white gownd, an’ me your lawful husband, an’ a man o’ money! Damned if I ain’t got a mind to climb up by the pear-tree!”
“You mustn’t, you mustn’t! Go away, dear, sweet Will. An’ I’m so thankful you’ve forgiven me for being so wicked, dear heart.”
“Everybody’ll ax to be forgiven now, I reckon; but you—theer ban’t nothin’ to forgive you for. You can tell your faither I’ve forgived un to-morrow, an’ tell un I’m rich, tu. ’T will ease his mind. Theer, an’ theer, an theer!”
Will kissed his hand thrice, then vanished, and his wife shut her window and, kneeling, prayed out thankful prayers.
As her husband crossed Rushford Bridge, his thought sped backward through the storm and sunshine of past events. But chiefly he remembered the struggle with John Grimbal and its sequel. For a moment he glanced below into the dark water.
“’T is awver an’ past, awver an’ past,” he said to himself. “I be at the tail of all my troubles now, for theer’s nought gude money an’ gude sense caan’t do between ’em.”