“What ’s the use bringing sorrow on his grey hairs?”
“Well, it’s got to come; you knaw that. Grimbal isn’t the man to forgive.”
“Forgive! That would be worst of all. If he forgived me now I’d go mad. Wait till I’ve had soldier law, then us’ll talk ’bout forgiving arter.”
Phoebe shivered and began to cry helplessly, drying her eyes upon the sheet.
“Theer—theer,” he said; “doan’t be a cheel. We ’m made o’ stern stuff, you an’ me. ’T is awnly a matter of years, I s’pose, an’ the reason I went may lessen the sentence a bit. Mother won’t never turn against me, an’ so long as your faither can forgive, the rest of the world’s welcome to look so black as it pleases.”
“Faither’ll forgive ’e.”
“He might—just wance more. He’ve got to onderstand my points better late days.”
“Come an’ sleep then, an’ fret no more till marnin’ light anyway.”
“’Tis the thing hidden, hanging over my head, biding behind every corner. I caan’t stand it; I caan’t wait for it. I’ll grow sheer devil if I’ve got to wait; an’, so like as not, I’ll meet un faace to faace some day an’ send un wheer neither his bark nor bite will harm me. Ess fay—solemn truth. I won’t answer for it. I can put so tight a hand ’pon myself as any man since Job, but to sit down under this—”
“Theer’s nought else you can do,” said Phoebe. She yawned as she spoke, but Will’s reply strangled the yawn and effectually woke her up.